Sea of Broken Dreams
by jschneids
Summary: On the verge of escaping Rapture, Eleanor and Subject Delta are separated once more. In Rapture and on the surface, new enemies and allies abound, but who can be trusted? Can they survive to be reunited? Please review, some OC's.
1. Rise and Fall

**As shocking as it may seem, I don't own the rights to either Bioshock games. I'm just borrowing stuff from them. Also, I never completed the first game, so if I get any details of the canon wrong, just let me know, though this story will primarily be working with aspects from Bioshock 2, in which I am well versed. **

**!!!SPOILERS AHEAD. DONT'T READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED THE GAME OR PLAN ON DOING SO. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!!!**

** Our story picks up with Eleanor and Delta rising up to the surface in Sinclair's bathysphere, Delta having taken the "good" path in the game. As such, Eleanor has been molded into a rebellious and spirited young woman with strong ethics and morals guiding her, and, like the game, the saved Little Sisters are accompanying them up. The bombs on the final walkway just detonated, with Eleanor teleporting to safety, and Delta receiving its full blast....**

The hulking form of Subject Delta was thrown back through the water as the explosives Lamb planted detonated, tearing the walkway to pieces. He let out a tortured bellow, the scream warped by water and the mighty suit he wore, as he tumbled through the depths, arms flailing wildly, desperate for something, anything, to stop his descent. With triumphant joy, he felt his gloved hand take hold of a railing on the side of Sinclair's bathysphere, and a second later it began pulling him upwards with mounting speed.

The fringes of his vision were tinted with darkness and the rest was clouded by cascade of miniscule bubbles spawned by the escape pod's launch. His suit had kept him alive, surviving Lamb's final trap, but even then just barely. His time was quickly running out. As the bathysphere shot ever upwards, Delta swung his other arm upwards to take hold of the railing, every movement a fight against the pressures of the water rushing past. With inhuman strength though, he endured. He would get to his daughter. He needed to get to his daughter. With a will as metallic and unyielding as his suit, Delta swung his arms upwards once more, taking hold of a large handle, and began to climb the side of the bathysphere. He could see the glass dome of the cockpit coming into view, and he hazarded a look back at Rapture, Ryan's nightmarish hole that had transformed him into the monster he now was.

The city grew smaller and smaller beneath him, its lights casting the whole sea floor in an eerie glow. Persephone was sinking into the trench beneath it, bit and pieces breaking off as it did. Fontaine Futuristics, its hidden labs, and for all intents and purposes his birthplace, began to fade into the gloom of the ocean floor as the bathysphere travelled further from the ghostly lights, massive strands of kelp and mounds of coral hiding it from view. Rapture; it had taken so much from him, his old life, his memories, and even his humanity, leaving him a monster, a man grafted into machine. Even its only gift had been forced upon him; Eleanor. Returning his attention to the climb, Delta continued his ascent, a few more pulls bringing him to the exterior deck of the cockpit. Doctor Lamb was drowning.

The psychologist, so devoted, so single minded in her dream of utopia that she had been willing to use her own daughter as a mere tool for that end, was clutching at her throat as she tried desperately to reach the last pockets of air in the flooded space. Delta dragged himself over to the glass wall, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the precipice of the speeding bathysphere, and watched as the lithe, dark form of Eleanor in her suit kicked over to her mother's side, needle arm raised. For a second that seemed an eternity, Delta didn't know what his daughter would do, fully expecting her to impale the deranged woman. He was shocked to see Eleanor pull out a small mask and press it to her mother's face, and the doctor began to breathe. Delta forced himself upright, placing a massive gloved hand on the glass wall for support. His daughter swam over the moment she caught sight of him, placing a thin delicate hand on the other side of the dome, a layer of glass all that separated them.

The sphere broke the glassy surface of the calm sea waters, erupting like some sleek metallic fish, and Delta was thrown to his back, blinded by the first true sunlight he'd seen in over a decade. When his vision finally cleared, the hulking hollow man rose shakily to his feet, the simple act taking near all his strength after the ordeal. What he saw brought a smile to his masked face. It was a sunrise, a true sunrise after an eternity in the dark dank depths of Rapture. He returned his attentions to the dome of the cockpit and its occupants. Various panels and controls lined the sides of the area, and bits of furniture broken in the chaos, now floated about or rested on the metal floor. There was a door to it mere steps away from him, but the Big Daddy had barely enough strength to stand. There was a slight mechanical whirr and a hiss, and through the porthole of his helmet, Delta watched as the door rose up ever so slightly, an opening hardly a foot high through which the water within the cockpit rushed. Moments later, it was over, with only the occasional drip, and the door rose up fully. Delta's vision blurred once more, and his legs buckled. The behemoth of Rapture stumbled over, to the edge, leaning heavily upon a guard rail. Tilting his head back towards the door, he saw Eleanor emerge. The dark sphere of the Big Sister helmet was tucked beneath one arm, revealing her face to the world. Skin as white as porcelain met sunlight for the first time, and strands of short dark hair whipped about in the sea breeze.

"Father," she called, stepping towards him, broad, exuberant smile adorning her face, "we've done it! We-"

Her exclamations were cut short as the broken leg of a sopping wet chair met the back of her head. The girl crumpled to the deck ok the sphere, her helmet rolling back into the cockpit. Sofia Lamb looked down at her daughter.

"Forgive me Eleanor, but this is for your own good. Mommy loves you."

The doctor was soaked, dripping wet with cold seawater, but she walked forward with intent, showing no sign of acknowledgment to it. Delta bellowed in rage at the woman, struggling to stand once more, but faltering.

"You," hissed the doctor as she advanced, chair leg clutched tight and hands trembling, "you ruined _everything_. You have cursed Eleanor and these innocent girls with self awareness, damned them to the human condition."

Her bespectacled eyes narrowed as she continued forward. Delta wanted nothing more than to wring the life out of the woman, the true monster of Rapture, but could do nothing but stay upright, his body rapidly failing him.

"But worst of all, you took my daughter from me. You ripped her from me body and mind without a thought as too the consequences of your actions! You, Subject Delta, are an abomination, a twisted beast that Ryan's perverse dream spat out!"

The woman paused for a moment, giving a slight laugh.

"I know that I once told you I did not hate, gave no animosity towards you, but, " she laughed once more before her tone darkened yet again, "I suppose it always is easier to preach than to follow it. You may have thrust this life upon Eleanor, but you will not remain in it. I promise you that. No, you, Delta, are returning to the pit that spawned you. Rapture is a house of monsters, and you are remaining in it!"

Raising the broken bit of furniture triumphantly, the doctor swung it down upon Delta's gloved hand, his grip upon the railing his sole anchor to the bathysphere. Like a dying animal, the suited shell of a man gave out a bloodcurdling sound, a roar that echoed about his suit before imposing itself upon the world. Stumbling and flailing madly, the metal behemoth began to topple towards the edge, whipping arms about in a final search for a handhold. His fingers met flesh, and with grim determination, Delta clamped down, pulling Sofia Lamb towards the depths with him. The woman screamed as the pair fell towards the blue waters, but the Big Daddy's grip was like steel, his grip firmly fixed upon the twisted woman's arm. Two of Rapture's monsters met the waters with a splash, and, weighted by Delta's suit, began to sink. Twisting as they sank, the original Big Daddy held the woman beneath him, her hair and dress billowing out in the passing currents. He stared hatefully at her, clamping one hand down onto her neck. The doctor's eyes widened in terror her mouth opening in a silent scream, though mere bubbles escaped in the place of sound. Delta held his grip even as his vision blurred and darkened. If it was to be the end, he would have his revenge. Mother and Father sank down to a manmade hell, life slipping away from both.

* * *

Eleanor awoke with a groan, a wild thumping in her head she gazed around, seeing the dirty bare feet of Little Sisters. Rising shakily, she leaned herself against the glass dome of the cockpit. The sun was blazing in full morning glory, the last traces of the orangey red sunrise fading.

"Father?" she rasped, looking about the deck, but finding only her helmet. A small tug on her hand brought her attention down to the small crowd of sisters around her.

"Mommy and Daddy fought," she said between sniffles, small tears falling down her face. "They fell back down to the scary place."

Eleanor felt her heart leap into her throat.

"No," she whispered. "No!"

Brushing the sisters aside, she rushed over to where her father had laid, finding only puddles of seawater, a bent guardrail, a chair leg bobbing about on the surface, bumping into the side of the bathysphere with a metallic thump on every strike. Quivering, she fell to her knees, staring down into the water, her pale reflection looking back at her. Tears welled up and fell, splashing into the ocean like the drips of Rapture's leaky chambers.

"Father," she breathed, breathing ragged as she wept. "Mother, why?

A small hand tapped on her shoulder, and turning Eleanor faced a sister, one struggling against tears herself. The little girl handed her a cloth doll, one of the many crude likenesses they made of their protectors. Her tears beginning to stain it, she clutched the doll to her chest before taking the sister in a hug.

"Thank you," worked their way out of her lips between dying sobs, and the small family, now devoid of a father embraced, tears falling onto the deck like rain, before Eleanor ushered them all back into the dome of the cockpit. As she herded the last sister in, a glint on the deck caught her eye, walking over to it, she found her mother's wide glasses lying on the deck. Her eyes hardened, and she brought her foot down upon them with a crunch.

The door hissed as it closed behind her. She examined the controls, most damaged in the explosion and subsequent flooding. They could not dive, could not go back to Rapture, but the bathysphere was still seaworthy, its propellers still functioning. There was one place that it could take them; land.

* * *

Beneath the waves, Fontaine Futuristics sat in its spectral lighting, now poised upon the edge of a trench. Persephone's destruction had taken much of the cliff into the abyss with it, as well as chunks of the labs, the facilities now no doubt flooding. A large shadowy figure flitted between murky patches of darkness on the sea floor around the facility, turning away from the bright lights illuminating the sides of the building. Alex the Great dredged through the muck and silt, hungrily searching for a taste of the ADAM infused sea plants he thrived on. The gears of the deranged mutant's mind whirred away as he trawled through the depths.

_Fine chap that Delta_, he thought to himself as he swam along the sea floor, snapping at a fish that got too close,_ letting me live and all. He could have made Employee of the Month, yes, yes. Perhaps even management material._ The mind of Gilbert Alexander had been broken long ago.

A sudden thump and its accompanying plume of dust snapped him to attention, and the shell of what was once a respected and brilliant scientist scuttled over to its source, on edge. He stayed in the darkness, the light stinging at his eyes, but it suited him just fine. It just made hiding his form all the easier. Climbing atop a mound of coral, he gazed in shook at what he saw.

_Delta? No,no,no. This won't do at all. All that overtime he did and all._

Somewhere deep down in the blackened pit that had once been the conscience of a ethical man, he felt a stirring. Jumping down from his perch, Alex the Great dragged the metal body, long since separated from that of his nemesis, into the shadows before hefting it over a shoulder and heading towards the ruins of Andrew Ryan's dream.

_Consider this your severance package boy, perhaps with a bit of hazard pay thrown in for good measure. Yes, that sounds nice. That will do quite nicely._

After a few minutes of searching, the madman found the object of his hunt; a chunk of the labs that had fallen away, opening them to the seas. Carrying his passenger in, what had once been Gilbert Alexander stalked the flooded halls. They were on the lower levels, and the mutant lugged Delta's form through the dank chambers before finally reaching a stairwell. Dragging Delta upwards, the shadow of a man hissed in pain as his eyes met lights upon breaching the surface. The water had not risen past the stairs yet, though it was slowly on its way to doing so. Gil saw the distinct green glow of a Via-Chamber in the distance, and knew his job was done as he pushed Delta up out of the water.

"Good luck old chap," he wheezed, "and thank you."

With that, the monster delved back into the dark flooded halls, quite intent on finishing his meal.

Recessed into the wall of a tiled hall, the Vita-Chamber sprung to life, glowing and whirring, until at last its doors opened with a hiss. Rapture welcomed back a familiar denizen as Subject Delta fell out from the chamber.

**End Chapter. Please review, I'm always open to feedback. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing. More will be on the way.**


	2. Father's Wrath

**Disclaimer: I (obviously) don't own the rights to the BioShock games. I am merely borrowing the BioShock world for this story. Also, it has been brought to my attention I made a slight mistake last chapter; Dr. Lamb was a psychiatrist, not a psychologist. We shall pick up where chapter 1 left off, with Delta falling out of a Vita-Chamber in the crumbling Fontaine Futuristics building, and Eleanor and the sisters heading on towards the shore, unaware of his survival.**

Tears continued to stream down her face as Eleanor manipulated the various dials and switches controlling the submersible, setting on a course for the shore, all the sphere's navigational equipment telling her that the closest was to the west. With a final sniffle, she punched in the coordinates and pulled the lever, the bathysphere beginning to lurch forward in motion.

"Goodbye Father," she whispered, "and thank you."

* * *

Slowly, the darkness began to fade from his vision, and the mighty metal man began to see once more. Sounds returned to clarity and definition, the splashing of water and dripping of pipes, the electrical crackle of broken machinery. With a metallic groan, the Big Daddy rose to his feet, only to find himself, not aboard Sinclair's bathysphere, but instead once more in the halls of the hated Fontaine compound. With that realization came another; Eleanor was not here.

Quaking with fury, a sound so animal, so primal, so unnaturally loud blasted forth from him, a roar of rage that echoed through the ruins, reverberating off metal walls and tiled floor before reaching the ears of the remaining Splicers in the building. Terror accompanied the bellow as it struck them, but the hunger for ADAM and the twisted sadistic urges of their madness overcame it as the mutants rushed towards the source.

Delta struck the wall with his fist, a shallow dent appearing in the steel surface where he struck. The hall he was in led into a large chamber filled with rusted hospital beds and ruined mattresses, the remains of a medical ward no doubt. The behemoth in the diving suit heard the Splicers before he saw them. The distinctive click clack of a Spider Splicer climbing across wall and ceiling met his ears, and the Big Daddy calmly raised up his Rivet Gun in one hand before letting loose a swarm of hornets from his other, the insects spawned from his own flesh. There was a scream, and turning towards its source, Delta saw as the twisted, grotesque creature fell from the ceiling it had been crawling across, crashing into one of the bed frames while hopelessly swatting at his miniscule assailants. With a pull of the trigger, Delta let loose a volley of white hot rivets towards the man, each landing with a hiss accompanied by the sizzle of burning flesh. The Splicer screamed once more, and then was no more. The hornets landed on him, idly biting and burrowing into scorched flesh. The metal man casually reloaded and waited for the next foe, opting this time for the spear gun.

"Hey," came the cry from the far side of the room, the corner blanketed by shadow, "he got Bert! Let's cut him open!"

There was a chorus of agreement and feral growls, and Delta stepped further into the room. More space gave greater maneuverability in a fight. The little medical bay held nearly two dozen of the gurneys he had left the first Spider Splicer rotting on, with a few support pillars in the central space. The wall opposite his entryway was entirely glass; a window to the kelp and coral forest outside. Feet pitter pattered across the tile floor, splashing in the occasional puddle and Delta quickly scanned the area for his foes. The first that came into view was a Leadhead; a woman in your typical housewife dress, now dirtied and stained with blood and grease, but with a face so twisted and mutilated it was a terror to behold. She toted a large pistol in one hand, but Delta beat her to the draw, sending a spinning spear straight to her gut. It impacted with a wet crunch, sending the screaming monster back towards the glass wall, where she was pinned. Even from a distance away, Delta could see the small spider web crack spread out form the impact space and a few streams of water begin to shoot in. Dismissing it for now, he returned his attention to the fight.

A small group of Thuggish Splicers, armed with wrenches, golf clubs, and anything else they could find, were rushing him from the side. Turning to face them, Delta gave slight flick of his wrist, and the honeycombs of the hornets melted off, giving way to a glowering fireball. He raised a hand to the mutants, and a cone of hellfire erupted from his outstretched palm. Their screams fell upon deaf ears, for Delta had already moved onto his next victim. The buzz of angry insects attracted his attention to the bed he'd left the first Spider on. A Leadhead had evidently tried to sneak up on him, but had stumbled upon the body of his comrade, rousing the bugs that now nested within him.

"No, not bees! Anything but bees!"

His cries were silenced by a spear to the throat, shooting him back to the tiled wall and nailing him to it. The Big Daddy moved on. He noted with pleasure that a significant puddle had spread across much of the floors, spawned by the leaking glass wall. A quick scan of the room found a side door through which the Splicers were arriving en masse, and the man beneath the helmet gave a smile as he saw that the whole floor around it was now soaked. The flames in his left hand died away, and sparks began to crackle between his fingertips. With a flick of the wrist, an arc of blue tinged volts shot from his hand, striking the water. Instantly, they shot through the wide puddle, crackling and hissing, and the dozen or so poor souls that had been standing in the water fell screaming as the electricity coursed through them.

Delta gave a satisfied grunt, and began to step towards the door, his opponents dispatched. The heavy thump of his booted footfalls was quickly drowned out by the sound of a back wall exploding outwards. The Big Daddy whirled around to see the gorilla like form of a Brute Splicer standing in a new hole in the wall, bits of tile and concrete strewn about. The ape like monster gave a roar as he stared at the suited man with beady eyes, a battered bowler hat, dwarfed in comparison to its wearer, tilted atop its ugly head. The Brute had entered from the same side he had, and with his back to the spreading puddle and weakened glass, the Big Daddy brought out his drill, revving the bloody tool. With defiant roars, the two behemoths of Rapture charged each other, meeting midway. Metal met flesh, and both were knocked back. Delta rose shakily to his feet, only to see the Brute grabbing hold of a gurney and whipping it towards him. Instinctively, the Big Daddy hopped out of its way, only for the spinning metal bed to cartwheel past him and strike the glass. There was a massive crack as it struck, and the combatants realized with mounting horror what this meant.

"Uh oh," was all the Brute had time to say in its deep voice before the window gave way with a great shatter, and the cold waters of the Atlantic rushed in. Delta stood tall, facing the crashing wave as it swept up bodies and beds alike. A moment later it was upon him, the great wave throwing him back and spinning the metal man about like a ragdoll. Finally, the tide relented enough for him to regain his feet. The tank on his back kept him alive, but the Brute had no such luck. The beefy Splicer was twisting and squirming as it struggled for breath, but finding no life giving air. Delta merely watched in contempt as a final stream of bubbles escaped from its mouth, and then, it was no more, just another of the fresh corpses floating up in the water.

Delta looked at them apathetically. They had attacked him, and were therefore obstacles. He felt no remorse, and walked through the flooded medical wing to the broken window. Already, silt and sand had been swept in, a fine layer resting on the floor surrounding the shattered glass. The metal man hefted stepped out of the flooded room, booted feet landing soft sand. Strands of kelp stood up like green streamers floating towards the surface, but Delta did not pause to take in their beauty. Sweeping the strands aside with one arm, he stomped through the kelp forest with single minded intent until he finally cleared the green tangle. He found himself standing upon a small ledge alongside tracks of the Atlantic Express, looking out over the rest of the city.

Rapture's lights glowed not far in the distance, an eerie, spectral glow that was warped and twisted by the sea. It's towers stood high, bits and pieces crumbled away on some, others completely ruined. The docks and fisheries, the slums and whore houses sat in their shadows, areas the aristocrats of Rapture had sought to forget. Delta stared at it with hate. The place had taken so much from him, given so little. He did not know how he had returned here, or why, but he did know one thing; somewhere in this sunken dystopia was away out, an escape that would let him reach his daughter, and he was going to find it. And God help whoever dared to get in his way.

* * *

Eleanor looked out the dome of the bathysphere as is silently cut through Long Island Sound, eyes fixated on the lights of New York City, so similar, yet at the same time so different, from the ones that lit up Rapture. Sinclair's maps and notes had guided her here. He had been just as involved in the smuggling business as Fontaine, and if his notes were to be trusted, which in their flood damaged state was difficult at best, there should be a small dock and warehouse he used in the area. Night and deep water had masked their approach; now all she had to do was find Dock 17. Eleanor found her goal in the form of a dilapidated wooden construct at the end of a line of piers and docks, tarnished brass numeral proclaiming "17" high on one wall. It was clear no one had used it in years, but that served her just fine. The bathysphere slipped into the decaying wooden structure in silence, save for the idle wave that slapped against it on occasion. Destination reached, the young woman shut down the sphere, the rumbling of the engine beneath her feet dying off. She sighed. They'd made it.

Eleanor looked back at her fellow escapees of Rapture. The ten ex-Little Sisters were huddled together, sleeping on a 'bed' made of cushions and blankets she had carefully and diligently dried with Inferno. She sighed. With Father gone, she was all they had now, and she was going to need help. There was only one man in the world who could help them, and she prayed that he was in the city.

* * *

Jack Ryan settled down into an armchair in his spacious townhouse, a glass of bourbon in one hand, cigarette in the other. His life had not always been his own, the dark chains tattooed on his wrist were a bleak reminder of that, but he had escaped, and freed more than just himself. He was 'father' to the five girls, now teenagers, asleep in their rooms above, the lone reminder of the nightmare that was Rapture, and the only good thing that it had given him. He sighed as he sank into the chair, sipping his drink. It had been a long day.

The sudden ring of the telephone returned him to alertness, and the man rose to his feet and walked over before the offending machine could ring again.

"Ryan residence."

"Hello? Is this Jack Ryan?"

Jack frowned; the voice was shaky, young, and carried a distinct British accent. It was wholly unfamiliar.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Eleanor Lamb, and I, I need your help. Please. I know who you are."

The man tightened his grip on the glass, brows furrowing.

"Miss, I think you have me mistaken for someone else. Good-"

"It's about Rapture," the girl blurted, and words died in his throat.

"Rapture," he rasped, before the glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the kitchen floor.

**End Chapter. Hope you guys liked it. Please keep up the feedback. Oh, and just for my own reference and future chapters, if anyone knows whether the sisters Jack saves are given names or not in the first game, please let me know. I'd hate to name them when they already have one from the canon of the game. Thanks. Until next time.**


	3. The Siren

**Disclaimer: All I own is this story. The BioShock games, sadly, I do not. Oh well. Moving on, we left our heroes in two very different places. Delta, after tearing through the Splicers who stood in his way, is trekking across the sea floor back into Rapture, in hopes of finding transport to the surface. Meanwhile, Eleanor and the rescued sisters have sneakily docked in New York City, and after tracking him down, she has asked Jack Ryan for his help. Let continue, shall we?**

The waters around him muffled every sound, distorted every sight. Heavy booted footfalls in the sand sent up small clouds wherever they struck, and reached his ear as soft thumps. Rapture's lights shimmered with a ghostly glow, warped by the sea. Delta trudged through the murky expanse, past rock and coral, through wreckage and kelp, step by step as he headed towards the city. Schools of fish cut languidly through the water, only to scatter in a heartbeat whenever a larger fish, or the occasional shark, drew too close. Out here, in the open expanse beneath the waves, Delta was calm, a fleeting peaceful reprise from the hell of his existence. Out here, he could ponder his world without having to worry about shoot Splicers and drilling through psychopaths.

Ryan, and in their own parts Fontaine and Sinclair, had taken away his old life, grafting and building his body into a metal monstrosity. All he knew was love for Eleanor, and whatever scraps of conscience he retained. He was Subject Delta. But who was he? Who was the man beneath the shell of metal and glass? What had he left behind on the surface? Was he a good man, a bad one? Did he have family waiting on the surface? So many questions flew through his tortured mind as the hollow man walked onwards, ever onwards towards the jagged silhouette of Rapture. He had seen what befell Alpha's separated from their sisters; coma, or madness, but he could not help but wonder which would strike him first. Then again, his bond had been severed, his future clouded with uncertainty. The short term goal however was quite clear; get out of Rapture or die trying.

The eerie shapes before him began to take on definition as he approached. Each individual are and building had its own shape, own outline, own palette of drab colors painted on by a decade of disrepair. The closest to him was all too familiar. It had no ghostly lights, no dystopia beneath glass ceilings. Lamb had made sure of that. The pipes and ceilings of Siren Alley had failed catastrophically when the mad doctor had deliberately brought the place crashing down around his head. He stood upon a small ridge in the sand overlooking the flooded red light district. He could see a small space where the roof had caved under the immense pressure of the sea's rage, and the gaping hole that had resulted. With a final push from his legs, Delta leapt forward, the water caressing him as he sank down towards the gaping wound in the structure below. Like thread through the eye of a needle, the Big Daddy slipped down through the hole with hardly any space to spare, concrete and rebar scraping gently on his sides. His feet found wooden deck a second later, and he landed with a grunt.

Siren Alley, which mere hours ago had played host to the devilish Wales brothers, hosts of Splicers and ruined whore houses was now a watery grave, its only inhabitants fish who nibbled idly at the floating corpses, so many of them Delta's own handiwork. He stood upon one of the many balconies that traversed the street level, a latticework of bridges and overhangs that cluttered the roofs and upper stories of buildings. The hollow man gazed around at what his and Lamb's struggle had wrought, but felt no guilt; there hadn't been a sane soul in the Alley for years, and he knew it to be true. Delta gave a heavy sigh, hopping off the wooden bridge before drifting down to the streets, landing upon its metal and concrete surface with a heavy thud. A shark swam proudly above him, paying the metal man no mind as it surveyed its new domain. Fish nibbled away at corpses adrift in the gentle currents, while crustaceans and bottom feeders tended to those less buoyant. The Big Daddy saw a white shape float by, a billowing, ghostly form. He turned, only to find the white dress of Eleanor's that 'Father' Wales had found so sacred. It drifted past like a pale jellyfish in the dim shadows, a soft glow cast by only a few struggling lights the only illumination.

Eleanor. His thoughts turned immediately to his 'Daughter'. There was so much he wished to ask her, to say to her, and he cursed the surgeries that had scarred his vocal cords when he was grafted into the shining diving suit, finding just one more reason to hate them. To a man whose only speech was bellows, grunts, and roars, the finer nuances of conversation seemed as precious as gold.

A quick glance around showed him the foyer he had entered the then dry district a few yards away, and with it, its airlock. The hollow man stepped up towards the chamber, sending a silent thank you to the foresight of the device's designer for waterproofing the electronics as he stepped inside. He gave a quick pull of the lever within, shutting the door behind him as the chamber entered into an unnecessary flood cycle before opening on the other side. He gave a sigh as he stepped out into the alleys of seafloor that snaked between Rapture's districts. It was time to pay Stanley Poole a visit.

* * *

Jack Ryan stared at the shoddy looking warehouse on the docks before him with narrowed eyes, anxiously fingering the grip of the pistol held in his right hand. With a deep breath, he turned off the car, its headlights dying with its engine, and stepped out into the chilly night air, full moon overhead. Steeling himself, he walked towards the entryway of the decomposing building. He had felt his heart stop the minute the young girl on the phone had mentioned Rapture. He had thought it a hoax, but she went on with details; specific districts, its founder, everything. This was real. But what was all the more surreal was that it was no denizen of Rapture come seeking revenge, but rather a fellow escapee of its hell, or at least so she said. She had given him an address down at the docks, and then hung up, begging for him to come and talk to her. That had been nearly a half hour ago. He had wasted no time, rousing the girls, explaining to them, hugging them goodbye, and promising that come hell or high water, he'd be back in two hours at most. His fingers played over the surface of the gun nervously. It was a promise he intended to keep.

The rusty sheet metal double doors towered from a mere inch off the ground to a few feet from the roof, resting upon unseen hinges and adorned with a shoulder level handles. Jack gripped the left door handle and pushed ever so slightly, wary of the no doubt creaky hinges. His fears proved unfounded however, when the door swung inwards with hardly a squeak. Somewhat relieved, he pushed just a bit more, opening a gap just large enough for him to slip through. The inside was just as rotten as the outside.

Stacks of crates and boxes, obviously years since touched or moved, sat on the warped wooden floor, some teetering and leaning as if threatening to spill out onto those below them. The rafters and lights, none of which were on, were shrouded in shadows high above. The building was not overly large; he had seen it from the outside, but the way boxes and crates were stacked in a labyrinthine tangle seemed to amplify the dank space tenfold.

"So, you're really Jack Ryan?"

The voice seemed to echo forth from off to his side, and whirling around, Jack found himself looking down a small alley in the box stacks, tight at a girl no older than one of his own. She stood clad in what looked like some kind of cobbled together diving suit, lithe and form-fitting, and her hair fell in dark strands around her face, partially obscuring bright blue eyes, curious yet cautious at the same time. He took all of this in within a moment to seeing her, and kept his pistol pointed steadily at her head, positive of his accuracy even in the dim light. Time in Rapture bred those kind of skills into a man.

"How do you know who I am?"

He had thrown a bit more of an edge into his voice than he had intended, but the girl stood strong, unwavering.

"Everyone in Rapture knows who you are," she said, though her voice was soft, no accusatory tone or condemnation within it, "and I know that you're the one person who can help me now."

Jack kept the gun trained at the girl without falter.

"You keep saying that. Care to elaborate?"

She nodded sullenly.

"Just follow me. You'll see."

Without another word, she turned silently and headed down the corridor between the stacks. Jack eyed her suspiciously before following, albeit a good distance behind her. The boxes were like a maze, and he found it hard to keep an eye on her. At last though, they emerged from the expanse clutter, and what he saw took his breath away. The warehouse sat upon a pier, and a section of the 'floor' had been cut away to accommodate boats entering via the Sound, or in this case, a bathysphere. His heart skipped a beat. There, docked and secured, was a Rapture bathysphere, so much like the one that had carried him and the girls away from that hell ten years ago. What held his attention even more however, was what he could see within the bathysphere's clear cockpit dome; little girls, barefoot, dirty little girls with smudged dresses and torn bows in their hair.

"No," he rasped, vision spinning "no, not again."

His hand began to shake, the pistol's aim going wild.

"Explain yourself. Now!"

His voice wavered, and Eleanor sighed.

"You should take a seat. It's a long story."

Jack didn't move a muscle.

"Fine," she said, sighing once more, "it all started with my father..."

* * *

He was a young man, or at least relatively young considering his position, thin and athletically built. He relaxed in a leather office chair behind an equally vintage desk, its surface currently a clutter of folders and paperwork, a fountain pen askew atop one stack, and a great aged globe sat in one corner, a buffer against the flood of papers threatening to spill over the side. A bright brass plaque sat near the front of the desk , proudly heralding the "Office of Naval Intelligence". The man in the chair leaned back, slowly sipping at a shot of whiskey, careful not to drip any of the potent liquor onto his pristine uniform or jingling medals. He bore than any soldier or sailor should, but then again, he knew much more than any soldier or sailor. His drink in the dim light a table lamp threw off was cut short by the abrupt knocking upon his office door, reverberating off mahogany panels.

In one fluid motion he drank down the shot with a wince, deposited the glass into a drawer to keep its bottle company, and sat up in the chair as he took the pen up in his other hand.

"Come in," he called, looking up at his door. It swung open with a creak, and a grizzled old man in uniform stepped through, a folder under one arm. He gave a quick salute, which the younger man returned, before stepping forward and depositing a thin folder atop the pile of paperwork. The red stamp atop its cover distinguished it from many of the others however. Most files with "Top Secret, Eyes Only" tended to do that. The young, seated, whiskey drinker looked at the older man expectantly.

"What is this Captain?"

"They're the files you requested Commander," he replied, voice like grating gravel, "the brass approved your order. CIA expects them back intact," he gave miniscule, momentary frown, as if a bad taste had just entered his mouth, "sir."

The young Commander raised a brow expectantly.

"Is there something you wish to say Captain?"

The weathered Captain's brows furrowed.

"Permission to speak freely sir?"

"Granted."

"Sir these things have been sealed since we kicked out Hitler's hold on Europe and bombed out the Japanese. It's been nearly two decades, and there were all kinds of tests and projects going on, and some things are best left buried. Your predecessor understood that and-"

"I'm not in the habit of taking grief from my subordinates Captain," the Commander spat, "need I remind you that you can be court marshaled for insubordination?"

The Captain's jaws clenched, and his teeth ground.

"No sir," he replied icily, glaring at the Commander's haughty smile.

"Good. If that's all Captain, then you are dismissed, I'm sure a man of your position has a lot to do."

He flashed another venomous smile, and gave a sloppy salute. The grizzled captain gave a bitter sigh before replying with a crisp salute of his own and walking briskly out the door, shutting it harshly behind him. The Commander smiled hungrily as he pulled the folder closer to him.

"Let's see what Mr. Ryan was hiding. Time for a trip down the rabbit hole."

**End Chapter. Please keep up the reviews and feedback. I love to hear what you guys are thinking. Until next time.**


	4. Lifeblood

**Disclaimer: As much as I wish it wasn't true, I don't actually own the BioShcok franchise, just this story. That being said, let's get on with it....**

**Oh one quick note. In an attempt to rationalize how in the world Delta can carry around a full armory of giant weapons, I'm going to say that, in keeping with the technological spirit of BioShock, his equipment is collapsible and hooks onto the suit, as to make for easy transportation. Because let's face it, those guns are HUGE.**

Dionysus Park. What had once been a refuge and haven for the artists and free thinkers of Rapture had been turned into a mass grave a single man, then reopened like a festering wound by another of his victims. Subject Delta lumbered through what was left of Lamb's playground, past urchin covered statues, a coral encrusted carousel, and corpses new and old as he made his way towards the train station. When faced with imminent bodily harm, Stanley Poole was known to be more than cooperative and amply apologetic. The massive drill encasing his right forearm, and all of its smaller side augers, seemed to twitch in anticipation.

A sudden wave of agony exploded through his body, starting in his chest and spreading outwards at fearsome speed. The metal man fell to his knees, groaning in pain. His vision blurred, shades of red and pink infringing on its edges. Just as suddenly as it arrived, the attack subsided, and Delta rose shakily to his feet. Finding transportation would have to wait. He was going to need a doctor, and there was only one sane scientist left in Rapture who had even the remotest idea of what made him tick. It was time to find Dr. Tenenbaum.

* * *

Eleanor felt a sudden chill run through her body, though deeper and colder than even the frigid waters of the North Atlantic had sent through her. Her eyes glazed over, if only for a second, before a gruff voice shook her back to reality.

"You ok?"

She shook her head quickly, squirming slightly in her seat.

"I, I'm fine. What was I saying before?"

Jack Ryan looked at her quizzically.

"Your 'Father'. I'm still a little confused on all this."

Eleanor sighed.

"He's, was, my Big Daddy when I was a Little Sister. New Year's Eve he," she paused for a second, stifling a sniffle, "Mother had him killed. Hypnotized him and then forced him to commit suicide right in front of me."

Jack watched as she attempted to compose herself, stoic and silent. His own girls would awake some nights in hysterics, crying out for "Mr. B" in their nightmares of Rapture. He knew the kinds of bonds the pairs had, and what happened when they were broken. He had broken enough of them to find out in grisly detail. Eleanor continued on.

"It took me years, but finally I worked out a plan. I recalibrated the Vita-Chambers to revive him, and found a way to overcome the mental programming they had on him." Her voice softened, and a small mournful smile grew. "He, he freed me, showed me how to live, gave me a chance to live." Her voice trailed off, and the smile died. "We had made it out of Rapture, the two of us, the girls I'd saved in Persephone, and, and Mother. Father always showed mercy, forgiveness, and I tried to do the same, but the minute I turned my back, she knocked me out, and went after Father."

Tears began to well up, and her voice, so steady, began to falter.

"He had been injured, grievously, by some blasted trap. It was my turn to protect _him_, my turn to keep _him_ safe from the world, and I failed. Mother went after him, and they both ended up tumbling back down to that nightmare, that hell. She killed him, twice. And I couldn't do a damn thing either time."

Hot tears snaked down her cheeks, dripping onto the collar of her ramshackle suit. Jack had kept the pistol trained on her through the whole twisted story; the rise and fall of Sofia Lamb, the treachery of Stanley Poole, the sad tale of Gilbert Alexander, everything. The girl's strange garb now held new meaning as the slender equipment of Big Sisters; everything that had came out of the hellhole of Rapture with them in the submersible had come with a story, be it of Augustus Sinclair, kidnappings along the Atlantic, or of Subject Delta. Delta; he could not help but feel a sense of camaraderie to this faceless character, a shell of a man Rapture had created and toyed with, so much like himself. Only Delta had not received the happy ending he had. His 'family' sat in this warehouse as he sat beneath the sea, hollowed out of life. Jack Ryan sat, seeing, thinking of how so similar a fate nearly befell him, a watery grave in Rapture, and wondered desperately what to do.

* * *

It had taken what seemed an eternity of fiddling with his hacking tool before Delta had finally been able to get the radio to work, setting it to the frequency Tenenbaum had used. There was a burst of static, before he heard the first sorrowful tones of the heavily accented voice.

"Hello? Who is on this channel?"

Delta gave a guttural grunt as a response.

"Herr Delta? Is that you? Give me a moment."

A few second and a burst of static later, her voice materialized over his suit's radio, much of the grainy element gone. He quickly turned off the handheld he had been using.

"Herr Delta, I am using the camera in your helmet. Please, what has happened? The Little Ones you saved have told me many things, and we saw the submersible launch from the ruins of Persephone."

The hollow man infinitely cursed the surgery that had taken away his voice, but Tenenbaum seemed to remember it as well.

"Oh, of course. Please forgive me. If you nod your head, I will be able to see it. Now, tell me, did you find Eleanor?"

He nodded slowly up and down, giving the doctor time to register it.

"Was she aboard the submersible?"

Another yes.

"Are, are the Little Ones from the prison alive and with her?"

Yet another nod.

"Was Sinclair?'

Delta paused, a silent remembrance of a man so key in Eleanor's escape. He shook his head 'no'.

Tenenbaum sounded surprised.

"Is he with you?"

Another 'no'.

"Then, oh, I see. He was a good man deep down Herr Delta. Know that. I think I begin to see the problem here. Without Eleanor, your body is starting to shut down. Now, only you can stave off the madness, but I believe I can help you with the coma. My team worked closely with the one developing the Protector Program, the team that created you. We, we agreed upon using pheromone signatures to link pairs. There are devices implanted within your body that sense and monitor the concentration of Eleanor's pheromone signature. When the falls too low, they attempt to shut down your vital organs periodically, until they succeed."

She took a deep breath before sighing.

"Now I believe there is a way to circumvent this. If you can obtain a sample of Eleanor's pheromones or genes, I can synthesize enough of it to keep you alive. But there is something I want in return."

The Big Daddy grunted expectantly.

"You will find this benefits both of us. With Lamb gone, the kidnappings on the surface will cease. I can leave with these Little Ones. There are still a few Sisters left out there, and my bathysphere was destroyed. If you will save the last Little Sisters, and find us a new bathysphere, I will fix it, and we can leave this nightmare. Please Herr Delta. We both need each other right now."

Slowly and deliberately, he nodded his head yes.

Tenenbaum sounded relieved.

"Good. Now, while you were out, the Splicers at the Atlantic Express dispersed, most on Lamb's orders to track you down. The ticket booth is safe once again. Come meet me there when you have the sample, and I will be ready."

Delta grunted. It was not the best of situations, but he had no choice. He knew where he could get a sample. Eleanor had lived with Grace Holloway in a penthouse of the Sinclair Deluxe for years, and the aging woman had near kept everything of the girl's. He was certain that there'd be an old comb or toothbrush he could use somewhere amongst it. However, the Sinclair Deluxe was in Pauper's Drop, and to get to the Drop, he'd need a train. And to get a train here, he'd need Stanley Poole. What Poole had done to him, to Eleanor, to everyone in Dionysus Park, had been unforgivable. The slimy coward still had his uses though, and Delta was planning on calling in one massive debt Poole owed him.

* * *

Commander Jonathan Calhoun of the ONI poured over the files before him, names, places, and dates all running together. He was running on coffee, caffeine, and the bitter, nagging feeling that he was missing something right before his eyes. Files on Andrew Ryan, Orrin Oscar Lutwidge, and the new fat folder on Mark Meltzer sat on his desk, scrambled about madly. There was something here, he knew it. Aliases and anagrams abounded. Notes and scribbles were scrawled out on Post-It notes stuck to the surface of particular documents. One was stuck atop a stack of Lutwidge's shipping records.

_Huge amounts of steel to Warden Yarn_, it read, it read, in looping, scrawling script, with another note stuck beneath it.

_W-A-R-D-E-N Y-A-R-N = A-N-D-R-E-W R-Y-A-N, Lutwidge and Ryan business partners?_

The notes were stuck everywhere, plastered over the mountain of files and material he had had brought in. Bits and pieces of the puzzle were scribbled everywhere. A unspecified project in the North Atlantic, an unexplained restriction on travel in that area, mysterious disappearances; there was something going on there. The so called Frozen Triangle was hiding something. The Commander had his nose in a book on the Triangle when there came a sudden knocking on his door once more. Placing down the book, he rubbed his temples before muttering, "Come in," just barely loud enough.

The door opened wide, and the grizzled form of Captain Kombes stepped though with a crisp salute, though a sour expression was worn upon his face.

"Sir, there's a report here that you need to-"

"Not now Captain, I'm busy."

"Sir this is -"

"Captain, I told you, I am very busy and-"

"Sir!"

The sudden outburst silenced the brash and haughty young man as he looked up into the face of the older Captain. the weather-worn visage was tired, though eyes still gleamed with fire and passion.

"Sir," he said, voice quiet, "you need to look at this. Now."

Glaring at the Captain, he took the file in his hand, before opening it and quickly scanning its contents. The hard look faded, and his reprimand for the Captain died in his throat.

"When were these taken," he croaked.

Kombes looked at him, impassive.

"Roughly three hours ago. East coast sub patrols picked up a shape on the radar, one got a partial visual. It was gone before they could align torpedo shots, and kept complete radio silence the entire time."

"What was it. Some kind of Russian robot?"

"We don't know sir. The man on the periscope of the one sub swore he saw people inside a glass dome on its top, but we can't verify it. However, based upon the size and travelling speed of the craft, the techs were able to come up with a projected range and estimated points of origin."

The older man pointed towards a map held within the file.

"The red shaded region is the projected range. Green areas are possible launch sites. Last time we checked, Soviet subs didn't have the capability to launch something like this from one of them. That means it either was launched from land, or air lifted into one of the regions."

Calhoun surveyed the map with a critical eye. The red area overlapped much of the northeastern coast line.

"Alright," he answered, voice shaky, "Get Homeland Security on the line. I want teams in every major port on this map looking for this thing. It made land somewhere, and we need to find it. Don't get local authorities involved yet. I want to keep this quiet as long as possible."

"What happens if we don't find it?"

The Commander looked at the Captain, tense.

"Then we wake up the President. Now go."

The Captain gave a salute then turned to leave, shutting the office door behind him. Commander Calhoun gave an anxious sigh, staring down at the map, or more specifically at the green area that covered the Frozen Triangle.

"What in the hell is out there?" he whispered.

**End Chapter. Please review and stuff. More is on the way. **


	5. Ghosts

**Disclaimer: Sadly, the BioShcok franchise is not mine. But I do own this fic, for whatever its worth.**

"Hey, J-Johnny Topside, you, you're back."

Poole forced a nervous laugh, sweating bullets. He stood at the train platform of the Park's Atlantic Express station, beaten, tarnished car behind him, a heavy suitcase dragged in one arm, pistol held shakily in the other. Delta was not impressed. He stood beneath an algae covered archway, the freezing mists of a chilling plasmid in his free hand, and the drill taking up his other, its surface dusted with frost from the Freezing Drill tonic. He held icy death in both hands, and stared at the shaking man, mask hiding any and all expression. The reporter turned spy turned mass murderer fumbled for his words, face pale.

"Wh-what brings you back to the Park, I thought I saw a sphere heading on up?"

Delta was silent, a curse imposed by the operations that had created him, but cocked his head to the side as he stared at Poole, as if to question what he was doing instead.

"You never were big on the talking," the same laugh escaped, forced, before he continued, keeping the gun lowered as to avoid any 'miscommunication'. When dealing with a man who spoke with his body and actions, not mouth, the slightest movement could carry meaning.

"I was just about to skip town here, move on to greener pastures, newer district. Haven't heard from Lamb, so I figure to coast's clear. No if you'll excuse me, I'll just be on my way and catch my train here-"

The Big Daddy revved his drill and stepped forward, silencing the man. Poole dropped his gun, the pistol clattering and splashing in a puddle.

"Jesus Christ don't kill me! Please! I, I can help you! Just point at something that needs doing and I'll get it done, I swear! Just, please!"

Delta held no interest in the pathetic man's life. There might be a time for vengeance in the future he mused, but he was on borrowed time as it was. He stomped over to the sign declaring destinations and lines, his heavy boots clomping away despite his best efforts. With one frost tipped finger of his left hand, the metal man pointed at a name on the list; Pauper's Drop.

Poole eyed him nervously, giving his little laugh.

"You, you need to get to the Drop? I can do that. You know what? Hoe bout' I stick with you, eh? You can go do whatever it is you need to do, and I can work the trains. They require a bit more, eh, finesse than it looks like you got."

Delta nodded, and jerked his head over to the open doors of the train car. A few of Poole's nerves died down.

"You won't regret this, I swear it. Now if you just gimme' a second I can get this baby moving-"

He gave small shout and redoubled his efforts as Delta revved the drill once more. He couldn't have the man getting comfortable at his expense.

* * *

Jack had started by taking inventory of all that had been brought of Rapture. Excluding the girls themselves, there was precious little. A few soaked notes, the recordings Eleanor had brought, and the bathysphere itself were the only things that harkened back to the nightmare beneath the seas. Everything was carefully dried and laid out near the sleeping girls. That was when they found it. A footlocker filled with ADAM in plasmids and EVE hypos.

"No," Jack whispered, distraught. "No we have to destroy these."

Eleanor was shocked. The metal box was a veritable treasure chest.

"What? Why? We can use these."

Jack stared at her, wild eyed.

"No you don't understand. ADAM, Rapture, all of it. It's a curse, a disease. Look what it turned a single city into. Hell. I'm not letting this spread to the rest of the world."

He slammed the box closed, putting it off to the side.

"We'll deal with those later," he growled.

There was a slight shuffling and muffled whimpers from the group of sleeping girls. Evidently, the abrupt closure of the box had awoken one of them. Eleanor couldn't help herself. She gave the man a nasty look before hurrying over to calm her. A pale skinned, dirty-haired brunette of no more than six sat curled in a ball, sniffling.

"Where's Mr. B?" she sobbed quietly, "Where's Daddy?"

Eleanor was at her side in a heartbeat, picking up the young girl and depositing her in her lap. Eleanor sat down, gently rocking the child as she hugged her suited chest, burying her face and tears into her shoulder.

"When's Mr. B coming?" she questioned, crying softly, "I want Daddy!"

The young woman felt herself tear up at this, as bittersweet memories of her own 'Daddy' flooded back to her, and fought to keep her voice level and calm.

"Daddy's going to be gone for a long time," she whispered back, a salty drop snaking down her cheek as images of her 'knight in shining armor' played across her mind, silently cursing her mother an infinite amount of times for so cruelly taking him from her.

The girl's cries redoubled, but Eleanor held hugged her tightly.

"Daddy's not going to be here, but you are. You're going to have to be strong for him, alright?"

The two teary eyed girls looked at each other, and the younger nodded somberly, before once more burying her face into Eleanor, racked by silent sobs. The young woman let her own quiet tears flow, mourning the loss of her family, gently rocking the little girl back to sleep.

* * *

The tarnished train car screeched to a stop at the platform of Pauper's Drop, heavy wheels rolling right over a water bloated corpse lying on the tracks as if it were nothing more than a bile filled balloon. The doors opened with a hiss, and out stepped Subject Delta. A nervous voice over the radio buzzed in his ear.

"Uh the Drop's still crawling with some straggling Splicers, so I think I'll stay with the train keep it ready for ya'." Poole's nervous laugh filtered in over the static, and Delta growled menacingly,

"Hey, hey take it easy big guy, I know better than to bite the hand that's feedin' ya', so to speak. I'll be right here, waiting for you finish up whatever it is you got to do here."

Delta grunted, annoyed, but proceeded down the hall. He walked past leaky glass walls and bedraggled bodies, a rusting Rosie and pneumatic jacks keeping the roof over head from collapsing, until at last he stepped out into the Drop. The Big Daddy pulled out his launcher, and his free hand clenched and relaxed with the invisible power of Telekinesis. He was in no mood for delays. The flickering neon sign of the Fishbowl Diner and the sounds of arguing Splicers greeted him as the door closed behind him, and he quickly looked around for the source of the first. A group of three of the disfigured denizens of the Drop had huddled around a rusted barrel, a fire crackling within, mottled hands reaching out over it for warmth. Delta saw no other enemies nearby, and opened fire.

The two Thugs and lone Leadhead never stood a chance. The heavy grenade flew through the air with a slight whistle before plummeting down to its mark. The explosive hit the side of the barrel with a slight ping, and the Splicers barely had time to register the sound before being thrown back by the shockwave and fire, and being eviscerated by shrapnel. Delta walked calmy over to the carnage, bodies splayed about, and the barrel blown apart. He heard a slight moaning, and looking down, he saw the charred form of the Leadhead reaching for his pistol, unaware of the futility of it. Delta raised a booted foot high, and brought it down with crushing force upon the pitiful creature's neck. The Big Daddy carried on towards the Sinclair Deluxe. He didn't have time for these cretins.

The hotel was in shambles, though it had been for years he supposed. Grace Holloway was on its top floor, and seeing as the elevator was moving, he had some walking to do. Dark hallways were littered with bodies, some new, some old, some murders, but all too many suicides. An ashen corpse swung from a noose in one room, a splatter of red stained a wall from a self inflicted shotgun blast in another. The walls, floors, and ceilings were bowed and bent, cracked and chipped, with bits of pipe and splintered wood sticking out at odd angles. Puddles of dirty water and oil were commonplace, in one room, and exposed gas line had ruptured, and its subsequent plume of gas ignited into a jet of flame. A lone Splicer had decided to jump him there, only to find himself lifted into the air, and tossed, screaming, into the flames with a flick of the Big Daddy's wrist. Investing in Telekinesis had its benefits. At last, he had reached the top, and striding purposefully he entered the room of G. Holloway. It had been maintained compared to the rest of the ruined rooms, free of corpses, but instead littered with dead memories. Every one of Eleanor's possessions solicited that dark feeling of loss in the hollow man, the unfettered yearning to find her. Still, simple mementoes was not why he was here. Taking hold of one downy pillow from her bed, he carefully put down his launcher and delicately removed the pillowcase. With his impromptu sack, he quickly set to work. He snatched up a few small stuffed animals, some old dresses, hoping that some stray hair would be left on them, before finding his prize. An old worn hairbrush sat in a drawer of her dresser, strands of dark hair visibly stuck in it. He deposited it in his pillowcase before turning to make his exit from the haunting place, only to find the old bent form of Grace Holloway, cane in hand, standing by the door.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she asked, tone holding the faint traces of a biting edge. Delta cursed his mute tongue, forced to merely gesture at the pillowcase in his hand.

"Why you taking Eleanor's things Tin Daddy? I saw that sphere going on up, with my baby girl in it. And no one's heard from Doctor Lamb, though I'm starting to see that ain't necessarily a bad thing. So I'll ask you again. What're you doin' here?"

Her voice held the slightest edge, a defiance worn down by the ravages of time and loss, but mostly all the voice was, was tired, and exhaustion bred by long, hard living. Within the suit, Delta squirmed in frustration, looking about for anything he could use to communicate. He has just about to grab for the chalk and blackboard when a voice buzzed over his radio.

"Herr Delta," came Tenebaum's accent, "I am going to use this radio to speak with Ms. Grace. Please hold on."

There was a burst of static, and suddenly the radio was no longer projecting just into his ear, but from his suit.

"Ms. Grace, my name is Tenebaum. I am using the radio of Herr Delta's suit to speak to you now. I came here to free the Little Ones Lamb took from the surface, to return them to their families. Herr Delta is assisting me now in finding a new bathysphere and freeing the last few Little Sisters. "

Grace appeared shocked, her face despaired.

"I, I know who you are, know what you do. You mean that Doctor Lamb was kidnapping these girls, taking them from their own momma's and families?"

Tenebaum's voice continued to echo out from Delta's suit, though the metal man was beginning to grow tired of serving as a glorified telephone.

"I am afraid so. She sent the Big Sisters to the coast, plucking away girls one by one."

Grace shook her head, muttering as she sat down in an old armchair.

"This is, no. She, she told me they were left over from the war, that the slugs had kept them young. I-I, oh, God."

She took a moment to collect herself before starting again, her tone once more strong.

"I know you ain't got any angle to lie to me for. And if you're really finding a way out of this hole, then let me help. I'll earn my ticket out."

Her pride seemed to diminish for a moment as her voice softened.

"At least, at least let me help take care of those girls."

Tenebaum's voice was sympathetic. She too felt the guilt that even now weighed down on the woman.

"Of course. You can return with Herr Delta to the station."

Grace nodded.

"Now what is this walking tin can doing in my home?"

Delta grunted indignantly at this, but the two women continued to use him to speak.

"He is bonded to a single Little One, Eleanor. His body is kept operating by exposure to a chemical her body produces. If I can get some of her DNA, I can synthesize a substitute to keep him alive."

The seated woman nodded.

"Ok. I'm guessing that we need him to get out of here don't we?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I'll be there soon then."

With a crackle of static, the radio died, leaving an old blues singer alone with a man whose life could inspire a thousand melancholy tunes.

"Well, get me to the trains then Tin Daddy. And you're carrying my luggage."

**End Chapter. Please Review. I love getting your feedback.**


	6. Baggage

**Disclaimer: I don't own BioShock blah, blah, blah, this fic is mine blah, blah, blah. Now with the boring legal stuff out of the way, let's continue. Special thanks to superstar reviewer "The Second Beast" for calling me on a few mistakes. Chief among them is reminding me that the Department of Homeland Security, mentioned a few chapters back, wasn't formed until 2002, which means I was about 30 or so years off. In light of this, please pretend that I said Department of Defense instead (now I know that those guys were around for sure). Now while I go brush up on my U.S. history to avoid further mishaps, please enjoy the next chapter. Thanks again Beast.**

The mighty metal man of Rapture was hardly visible beneath the mountain of luggage he carried. Suitcases, trunks, and handbags had been piled onto him by the proud old woman that currently marched a bit ahead of him, stepping carefully yet disdainfully over puddles, seeming not to care if they consisted of water, oil, or gore.

"Hurry up Tin Daddy, we're almost there."

Delta grunted angrily and marched on. At last, the hall gave way to the train station. Stepping atop the platform, Grace stepped into a nearby engine cab and opened a door leading to an adjacent passenger car before she headed in and beckoned for Delta to follow. He ducked under the doorframe as he did so and promptly dropped her luggage onto the car floor with a resounding thud. The old singer glared sourly at him for a moment before a rustling of movement from behind grabbed her attention. Turning with a shout, she forcefully swung the end of her cane at her assailant's face, only for the pained cries of one Stanley Poole to respond to the blow.

"God damn it!" he shouted, looking up only to find the blank porthole of Delta's mask staring back down at him.

"Where'd you get this crazy old bat, big guy? Just what I need, some nutty old Negro bitch-"

That remark earned him another clout over the head with the cane, causing him to yell and curse in agony.

"I remember you," she spat, glaring hatefully at Poole as she spoke. "You were that scumbag reporter writin' lies for the Tribune. You gave me and the Limbo the worst write up we ever had just 'cause the waitress didn't take a liking to your dirty pick up lines."

Stanley glared back at her for a bit before giving her his best smug and dirty grin.

"Well the waitress didn't help all that much, to be honest. But frankly, the food sucked, the beer was warm, and you sounded like a dying cat.

Grace's countenance was livid; her eyes were alight with bitter rage and her fingers tightened to a stranglehold on the cane as she spoke with cold fury.

"Why, I oughta-"

The bickering was cut short by a violent grunt and the earth-shaking stomp of a weighted boot from Delta. Poole's smug grin was wiped away by the sight of Delta's left hand, wreathed with icy, frosted dust. Grace smiled slightly at Stanley's distinct lack of backbone.

"So, where're we going next?" he asked, voice cracking as he gave a nervous little laugh.

Grace gave her own smug smile.

"Oh, I see now," she said contemptuously, "you're Tin Daddy's chauffeur, driving him around, ironing his clothes and the like. So cute."

Stanley's face lit up.

"Now listen here, you dumb broad, shut your trap or I'll-"

"Or you'll _what_?" Grace interjected, cutting him off. "I know a gutless man when I see one, Mr. Poole. I've seen jellyfish passing by my bedroom window with more spine than you."

The reporter's foul-mouthed answer to that was abruptly drowned out by Delta's roar of frustration. The two were silenced. Staring at Stanley, Delta first pointed at the engine car, then at the Atlantic Express logo emblazoned over a nearby doorway.

"He wants you to take this bucket of bolts to the train hub, you dumb monkey," Grace said contemptuously before a look from Delta silenced her.

Muttering and mumbling to himself, the former journalist exited the dank car and headed for the engine compartment. A minute later, they were on their way.

* * *

Eleanor had finally gotten the young girl in her arms to drift off to sleep. Gently returning her to the makeshift bed, the girl who had once been a Little Sister herself wiped away her own tears with the corner of a blanket.

"I'm sorry."

Jack's voice softly came from behind. Rising to her feet, Eleanor turned to face him, chin held high, eyes still tinged red from tears. She stared at him, lip quivering slightly.

"I, I shouldn't have reacted like that but, I thought I had left all this behind years ago and now, now it's just bubbling up again like some bad dream. But you have to understand where I'm coming from on this. You saw what this stuff did to Rapture, you know what it does. I refuse to let it happen again, to let it happen up here."

Eleanor was quiet for a moment before she abruptly turned around, her eyes widening and darting side to side as she did.

"Someone's here," she whispered, giving a final glance to the sleeping girls before silently darting off amongst the stacked warehouse boxes.

Jack cursed under his breath as he retrieved his pistol. Gun raised, he pressed himself against the wall of one of the box-formed alleyways and peered down its length. There was no one there. He moved onto another, and then a third before finally spotting two burly figures standing amidst the crates.

One of the pair was holding aloft a flashlight. Jack took care to avoid the questing beam of light, but the glare was blinding. All he could make out were the faint outlines of their uniforms and the imperious, officiating gait that the two carried in their step. He readied the pistol. A gunshot here would echo through the docks like a detonating bomb, but if he had no other choice, he would take it. Just then, from out of the corner of his eye, he saw an all-too-familiar mist begin to swirl atop a stack of boxes that stood just behind the two men, although its tint was purple instead of red.

"Oh crap," he whispered.

Just then, the form of Eleanor Lamb materialized atop them, clad in full Big Sister armor, and the lithe figure somersaulted through the air. Booted feet connected with the back of the man holding the flashlight, and his head made hard contact with the wooden floorboards. His companion barely had time to turn around before a spinning kick thudded into his jaw, sending him flying and spinning like an abused ragdoll as he went crashing into a pile of crates. Jack rushed over just as the young woman halted next to her first victim and raised the massive needle to strike.

"Stop!"

Eleanor halted, the eerily-lit porthole of her tarnished helmet giving no sign of her emotions as she froze in mid-swing. Jack ran over and pushed away her upraised arm as he quickly got on his knees and checked the first man for a pulse. He was out cold but still alive. The other man, lying atop his mattress of broken boxes, groaned and began to stir.

"Shit," Jack muttered. Wasting no time, he whispered a quick apology and slammed the butt of his pistol into the man's face, sending him off to rejoin his friend in blissful unconsciousness. A quick rifling of the man's pockets produced a shining badge with a very familiar emblem.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Jack sighed as he dropped the badge next to the unconscious agent. "Not good." He then rose to his feet and turned to face Eleanor, who had now removed her helmet and had it tucked under an arm. The girl darkly glared at him. Jack countered with a hard gaze of his own.

"Don't give me that look. I know how life in Rapture made you think, made you act. If someone or something down there was a threat to you or the ones you loved, you killed it. You destroyed it. It doesn't work that way up here, not by a long shot. You can't go around killing whoever you want. There are people up here that would kill for the things we know. Rapture, ADAM, Plasmids, all of it. Our survival depends upon staying hidden from them, and a body count attracts attention."

Eleanor looked down at her feet, shamed. Jack's gaze softened. He knew how this felt. Re-learning how to live and how to act was not an easy thing. Children could adapt quickly; for adults, it took much longer and it came much more painfully.

Jack grimaced and scratched the back of his head as he tried to approach the matter from a different angle. "Hey, look here."

The girl looked up, a lone tear snaking down the side of her face. "I was going to kill them," she whimpered, shaking slightly. "I didn't even know who they were or what they wanted, but I was going to kill them. God, what am I?" She sobbed.

Still keeping one eye on the knocked-out FBI agents, Jack calmly walked over and laid a weathered, calloused hand on her armored shoulder.

"You're a girl who went through and saw things that no human being should ever have to undergo. It takes your mind a lot longer to escape Rapture than your body. The first few weeks are, terrible, I won't lie to you. But you will have to endure; you will have to struggle through it, for yourself and for those girls over there."

Eleanor met his eyes, soft and sympathetic, with her own, reddened and tear-stained.

"I, I understand. Thank you," she said. Her voice was barely audible as she turned to her two erstwhile victims and voiced a question. "Who are those men?"

Jack sighed as he released her shoulder and wearily rubbed his temples.

"They're from the United States government. My guess is they tracked your bathysphere. If they're looking for it, then we need to get you and the girls out of here and conceal our tracks."

Eleanor looked at him questioningly.

"How?"

Jack gave a cocky smile. "The fuel Rapture's bathyspheres use can be just as dangerous as TNT under the right conditions."

* * *

The locomotive came to a halt at the station platform with the scraping and grinding of gears and wheels. The doors of the train then opened with a hiss as three figures stepped out, one from the engine compartment and two from the first passenger car. Delta was once more burdened with Grace's belongings, but after a short walk to the ticket booth he unceremoniously deposited them on the floor, keeping only his pillowcase of treasures from Grace's room in hand. Grace and Stanley stayed behind, only stepping up to the booth windows at Delta's insistent gesturing. He kept a constant eye on the pair as he reached over to press the call button. The security shutters slid open with a clatter, and staring back at him from behind reinforced glass was the tired face of Dr. Tenenbaum. A small smile broke her weathered face at the sight of the Big Daddy.

"Herr Delta, I am glad to see you have returned safely, and with Fraulein Holloway as well."

Her eyes fell upon Stanley, and the smile faded.

"Ah, Herr Poole, this, this is unexpected."

Stanley's eyes went wide, and his nervous chuckle and smile returned.

"You, uh, you know me?"

Tenenbaum's eyes were cold and her voice was dry as she spoke.

"By reputation only."

Stanley swallowed hard. Before anything else could be said, the screaming cackle of some unseen Splicer pierced the air. Delta brought up his Rivet Gun with one hand and a ball of crackling lightning in the other. Tenenbaum looked at them grimly.

"I will unlock the door, briefly. I suggest you get inside, and quickly. The neighbors are, less than friendly. "

There was no argument from anyone on the other side of the glass. When the booth's side door popped open, Grace, Stanley, and all of Grace's belongings were hurried through it, including Delta's prize in its pillowcase. It slammed behind them, leaving Delta looking through the booth window in some confused bewilderment. Tenenbaum looked back at him, a clearly noticeable hint of guilt in her eyes and voice as she spoke.

"I'm afraid there is no room left for you in here Herr Delta, though I'm sure you're more than capable of dealing with some stray Splicers. We, however, are not."

A small, mournful smile returned to her face.

"It is now much more crowded in here thanks to you. The Little Ones you saved made their way back to me. Now, it will take me some time to synthesize the compound from Eleanor's gene samples you retrieved, but in the meantime, perhaps you could try and secure the station area for us. A bit more room would benefit us all."

It was then that Delta noticed how true this was. Whereas mere hours ago, the doctor had only three rescued Little Sisters with her, fifteen little girls were now running around the ticket booth. A flicker of recognition crossed his mind, and Delta now saw the girls he had saved as they truly were, no longer possessing glowing eerie eyes, and no longer wearing tattered, bedraggled rags as clothing. Tenenbaum had obviously put great care into their wellbeing, and he could see Grace unloading one of her suitcases and distributing some of Eleanor's old clothes that she had brought. Many of them were staring at him in rapt attention, wonder and gratitude in their eyes. Delta heaved a heavy sigh before grunting and giving a nod in acceptance. The doctor nodded back in thanks, and the heavy metal shutter closed with a rattle.

The metal man looked around and sighed again. He had a lot of work to do.

**End Chapter. Please keep up the reviews, I love hearing what you guys have to say. A special thank you to Markal for beta reading this bit for me, and supplementing it with some excellent revisions. I'm off on spring break soon, so you guys might not hear from me for a while. Until next time.**


	7. Homeward Bound

**Disclaimer: You all know the drill (unintended pun, I swear); I own nothing but my own characters, story, etc. Let's see, well first off I hope everybody had a nice Easter and such. When we left off, Delta had just delivered Stanley, Grace, and Grace's mountain of luggage to Dr. Tenenbaum, who promised to create a drug that would keep him alive, even without Eleanor around. Meanwhile, the Feds have been snooping around the warehouse Eleanor's been hiding in, and Jack plans on blowing it sky high to cover up their tracks. What happens next? Read on.**

The massive metal man stepped back to inspect his handiwork. The handful of holes and breaches in the walls of the station had first been plugged up with telekinetically thrown debris and then sealed off with the assistance of the Rivet Gun and some scraps of metal that had been scattered throughout the station. A crude but effective welding job with Inferno then finished the job, leaving the elevator as the only remaining entry point into the station. With hacking skills honed throughout his pilgrimage to find Eleanor, it had been a simple matter to then break into the elevator's control panel and lock the car in place at the top level, blocking off any and all access to Spider Splicers attempting to break in via a climb up the elevator shaft. There had been a lone Splicer roaming the halls with a rusty length of pipe, but a shotgun blast to the face had quickly put an end to that threat. Before he locked down the elevator, Delta gathered up the bodies strewn about the station and cast them into the shaft's empty darkness below. It wouldn't do to keep corpses in their temporary place of residence.

With a final grunt of satisfaction, Delta lumbered back to the ticket booth. He raised a gloved finger to press the shutter button, only to stumble and fall against the window with a ringing crash of metal against metal as a massive wave of pain racked his body. He slid down to his knees, one hand resting on the counter of the ticket window, the other bracing him up against the concrete floor as he groaned in agony. The edges of his vision flooded with tinges of red and pink, then darkened as his eyesight began to fade. His breathing was ragged and erratic. Over the deathly rasps of his labored breath, he heard the door of the ticket booth swing open, and the patter of shoes on ceramic tiles as a pair of feet rushed up to him.

"Herr Delta!" Tenenbaum's voice was laced with panic. "Hold on, this will help."

A pale, weathered hand entered his obscured field of vision, clutching a large hypodermic needle filled with some sort of glowing pink fluid. The gleaming syringe then disappeared from sight and plunged into the IV port mounted onto his armored chest plate. He could hear the strange squelching noise that he had come to associate with EVE hypos. Then there was a slight tingling sensation, starting from his chest, before it spread throughout his extremities, leaving a pleasant numbness where there had once been agony. Moments later, the numbness faded away, taking the pain and muddled vision along with it. He shakily rose to his feet before turning to face the doctor.

There was a mask of relief on Tenenbaum's face. "Ah, good. It has worked. I have injected a solution containing a replicate of Eleanor's pheromone signatures into your blood stream. It will filter through your body's internal systems and keep you from slipping into a coma . . . for a few hours at least."

Delta grunted his thanks as he experimentally balled his hands into fists.

Tenenbaum turned and surveyed the newly-tidied space around them. "You do good work Herr Delta," she said kindly, nodding in approval before turning back to face him. "I watched you work over the camera, we will all sleep much safer tonight, or whatever passes for night in this nightmare." She gave a mirthless laugh and a tired half-smile.

Unsurprisingly, Delta did not join in. The doctor's face then darkened once more. "You have saved many of my little ones, but I am afraid that a few more yet remain. I have been able to hack into Lamb's security network. By my count in the camera feeds, there are still ten Little Ones left in Rapture."

The metal man gave a groan of frustration.

Tenenbaum took note, but continued on. "Do not fear, I have a plan for them. You see, Lamb's Sisters, be they Big or Little, all report to the loading docks of Fontaine Futuristics to deliver their harvested ADAM. The loading docks are a separate structure from the laboratories, and should have remained intact. If you lie in wait there, it would be a simple matter to eliminate their protectors."

Delta sighed and nodded. He did not relish the prospect of fighting ten Big Daddies, and possibly some Big Sisters, in a row. He abruptly felt a tug on one of his gauntleted hands. Looking over, he found himself staring down at one of the girls he'd saved, more specifically, the _last_ girl he had rescued, Cindy Meltzer. The girl's blond hair was unmistakable. A small yet mournful smile graced her features. Her old torn rags had been replaced with a clean dress, no doubt from the collection of Eleanor's old clothing Grace had brought with her, and her hair had been properly combed out.

A meek, tentative "Thank you . . . Daddy," escaped her lips before she rushed back behind the protection of Tenenbaum's skirts.

The hollow man sighed once more, but he had now been reminded of the purpose behind the danger. With heavy footfalls he trundled back to the waiting train. He couldn't help but hope and pray that the station at Fontaine Futuristics was still in one piece.

* * *

Jack silently thanked God, the Gods, or whatever spirit ruling the heavens that he had decided to bring along the pickup. The revelations in Rapture hadn't exactly left him with any amount of great faith in religion, but some instances just called for thanks to a higher power. Ten whimpering little girls currently sat in the back of the truck, alongside two boxes filled with selected items from the bathysphere. All of them were huddled beneath a large tarp. The truck hummed and shook gently from the idling engine. Jack sat in the driver's seat, tapping the wheel nervously.

Not far from the truck was a nondescript black van, the keys to which Jack had found in one of the pockets of the downed agents. The FBI men would eventually awaken inside their vehicle, missing nothing save for a slip of paper he'd found in one of their wallets. Jack had found his license plate number hastily scribbled on it. He couldn't afford to have the government track him down, not after having stayed hidden for so long.

All that was left was for Eleanor to make the final preparations and teleport out of there before the whole place came crashing down.

* * *

Eleanor stood in her suit, helmet and all, within the cockpit of the bathysphere. Within the submersible's engine, a select few lines had been severed and several nuts and bolts had been loosened, which Jack assured her would allow the whole machine to go up like a fireworks display when flame was applied to the fuel. She was just going through one final sweep when another chill, just like the one earlier, snaked its way through her body, shaking her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. She paused for a moment, breathing suddenly labored, before shaking it off and continuing.

There was a small light on one of the dashboards, flickering away. Curious, she stepped towards it. The console appeared to have suffered significant damage from the flooding, but was still operable. A faded, water-stained label atop the light's accompanying button proclaimed it as an "Exterior Security Camera Feed". The girl swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. Finger shaking, she pressed the button. There was a slight click as the cassette popped out of its slot. She knew what was on the tape. Cameras lined the outer deck of the craft, and the space where Father had fallen was no exception. She held the cassette in a trembling hand. It held the last moments of her mother and the man she had called Father. She began to lapse into a panic before the rational side of her mind took over.

_Got to stay focused_, she thought to herself, tucking the cassette away for later use. _There will be a time for that, but not now._

Taking a moment to get a hold of her nerves, she continued on with her sweep. Every bit of evidence linking back to Rapture had been loaded in here, as close to the engine block, the epicenter of the coming explosion, as possible. Jack had moved most of it while she had been outside coaxing the girls into the bed of the truck, which explained the presence of a particular item she now saw sitting atop the pile.

Lying slumped over amidst waterlogged notebooks and boxes of supplies was a ragdoll, a metal coil tipping one of its arms. It was the doll of Father which she'd lovingly pieced together so long ago, kept close by first her, then the new Little Sisters. Events from a decade ago flashed through her mind. She felt a tear silently snake down the side of her face. The little ragdoll seemed so out of place, so incongruous with the other items, each and every other object some terrible secret or harbinger of Andrew Ryan's shattered dream. With the same uncertain hands with which she had held the tape, Eleanor gently picked up the doll and tucked it into the suit with the cassette.

She turned and looked over the rest of the items. Jack had taken a box of the most legible notes and records that had remained; the ones that could show the way back to Rapture, as well as the chest filled with the plasmids and hypos of ADAM and EVE. Those he wanted to destroy personally. She sighed. Here inside this undersea craft, and truly the vehicle itself as well, were the last traces of Rapture, the last remnants of her childhood, the only home she had ever known, hellish though it may have been. Some part of her, deep down, wanted to leave it as it was, a ghastly museum to a nightmare beneath and beyond the sea, but the rest of the young woman's heart won out.

She stepped slowly over to the small weapons locker Sinclair had kept aboard before fishing about within. Her hand wrapped itself around the form of a grenade and drew it out. A few steps brought her to the engine hatch, almost buried beneath a mound of Rapturian detritus. With a flick of her wrist, the hatch snapped open, revealing the shadowy depths of the bathysphere's recently sabotaged inner workings.

Eleanor stood on the precipice of the dark hole, grenade in one hand, her breath shaky and hesitant. Finally, mustering her will, she pulled the pin. She then let the explosive drop before evaporating into a cloud of purple mist.

* * *

There was a hissing pop, and the young woman materialized in the bed of the idling truck. Her gaze instantly turned to the warehouse, and a few seconds later there was a tremendous, resounding boom and a great whoosh of rushing air before tongues of flame shot forth from the flimsy old roof of the warehouse building. Jack had been right about the bathysphere's fuel. Even over the explosion, she could hear whimpers coming from beneath the tarp. She poked her head underneath the canvas for a quick, calming word of reassurance before pounding atop the roof of the cab with a gloved hand as a sign for Jack to begin driving. The truck revved forward, and the Big Sister dove beneath the tarp to join her fellow Sisters.

* * *

The old Atlantic Express train rumbled along the tracks, destined for Fontaine Futuristics. Delta stood at the controls, peering out the window as the scenery passed by. The flora and fauna of the Atlantic had been given ten long years unfettered by humanity to do as they pleased to Rapture's decayed remains, and they had taken full advantage of it.

Massive strands of pale kelp, hunks of multicolored coral, and ghostly wads of algae all littered the corpse of Rapture. Schools of fish, sharks, and jellyfish all drifted by as the train pushed onwards. Flooded buildings and districts, forever-lost fragments of Ryan's dystopian delusion, passed through the Big Daddy's field of vision as well. Delta sighed heavily and returned his gaze forward.

The silhouette of Fontaine's broken compound was fast approaching. Checking over his equipment, the metal man found them to be in a satisfactory condition and pulled on the brakes as the train skidded into the station. The doors opened with their familiar hiss, and Delta stepped out into the foyer of his birthplace. The whole experience was surreal. The main hallway the station led into held corpses he had made mere hours ago, and outside the glass, a massive chunk of the laboratory complex was simply gone. The metal man paused to take it all in.

The train station was connected to the rest of the facility by a series of glass walkways. Most were now flooded, or just outright destroyed. The sole exception was the pathway labeled in tarnished metal lettering, "Loading Docks". It was opposite to the doorway through which he had ventured into the offices and labs. Its watertight door was intact, and the walkway was visibly whole. Delta stepped towards the door as it whirred and heaved itself open automatically. He began to stomp his way down the translucent hall; his weighted boots making the shudder with every step. The haunting, echoing melody of a Little Sister's voice met his ears. Delta rumbled in anticipation and brought up his drill. He had a lot of work to do.

**End Chapter. Please keep up reviews and comments. Once again, many thanks to Markal for beta-ing this for me. Feedback is awesome.**


	8. Grandaddy

**Disclaimer: Blah, blah, don't own anything, blabbity, blabbity, please don't sue me 2K. Ok, when we last left off, Eleanor and the rescued sisters were making good their escape from the docks in the back of Jack's pickup truck, and Delta was descending into Fontaine Futuristics to lay a smack down on a whole lot of Big Daddies and Big Sisters. Let's get this show on the road.**

Delta stomped down the glass walkway, each step bringing him closer and closer to the sources of the eerie singing. The Little Sister's voice echoed off the transparent walls. The first of the ten sisters was here, but that meant her Protector was as well. The walkway turned sharply ahead of him, and rounding the bend, Delta found his mark. A dirty little girl was leading a Bouncer down the hall, the massive drill and dome shaped helmet with its many portholes dominating the Big Daddy's form. The door was a few yards in front of them, and the distance was gradually being closed. Delta's hand twitched, and in an instance a layer of frost coated it. He brought out his Machine Gun, loading in a box of armor piercing rounds. He would finish this quickly.

With a roar, the original Big Daddy opened fire, sending a stream of hot leaden death towards the back of the Bouncer. A pained, metallic grunt emanated out from the bubble like head of his opponent as the Bouncer whipped around and revved his drill, preparing to charge at the fiend who had dared come near his Little Sister. Delta paused his volley only to lob a blast of ice at the Bouncer, freezing it in place with a white sheen coating the creature's whole body. Delta opened fire once more, slowly stepping forward. The ice soon shattered, leaving only a stunned Bouncer to soak up Delta's rounds. The beast had had enough. With a final groan it toppled like a rusty metal tree, crashing to the floor. Delta ceased fire and reloaded, watching as the Little sister, who had pressed herself up against the wall curled up in a ball through the entirety of the brief exchange, leapt to her feet and rushed over the body of her Protector.

Loud, heaving sobs and fat tears poured out from her face as Delta stepped forward. He walked over to her side, and she turned to look up at him.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, her ghostly white face forming into a broad smile, tears ceasing to flow from her yellow eyes. His mere presence had shaken her out of heart wrenching grief that a second ago had consumed her very being. He sighed, and with one massive hand gently hefted the girl atop his shoulder.

"He's nicer than other Daddies," she giggled happily from her perch, blissfully unaware of Delta's looting of her former Protector. Done stripping the body of anything useful, the metal man rose and headed for the door, intending on finding the nearest vent. There would be no time for Gathers. The door whirred as it opened, and Delta adjusted his gun. One down, nine to go.

Delta quickly scanned the room before him. The door opened to a cavernous expanse, a wide open area in the middle with stacks and racks of now antiquated boxes on one side and a series of platforms with water access for bathyspheres on the other. The middle was obstructed by a few thick pillars, and littered with rusty red barrels, oil slicks, and expansive puddles. A few old security cameras were still mounted to the walls. A quartet of hack darts took care of them; the bots and alarms were now on his side.

Delta stepped fully through the door, noting a vent beside him out the corner of his eye. A yawn coming from atop his shoulder took sudden command of his attention.

"Sleepy time is near," came a soft mumble, and stepping over to the vent, the Big Daddy gently lifted the girl in one massive hand. He held her close to the porthole that constituted his face and the Little Sister looked up at him, smiling slightly, though clearly confused. Soundlessly, the metal man brought up his free hand, palm glowing softly, and quickly pressed it to her forehead. A bright flash obscured his sight, but the Big Daddy had grown used to it, and though still blinded he carefully placed the girl back down on the floor. Eyes finally readjusting, he looked down to see the form of a little girl, soft brown eyes in the place of ghostly yellow ones, and her skin merely pale, no longer a ghostly white.

She took a moment to brush herself off. Finally, the girl looked up and smiled at him, small tears running down her face.

"Thank you," she whispered, before dashing over to the vent and scrambling up the ornate metal plate to decorated it, using the engravings as hand and footholds. A few seconds later, and she was gone, off to Tenebaum's safe haven. Delta sighed heavily and checked a dial that monitored his ADAM levels, before grunting in surprise. Saving the girl had provided much more of the genetic goop than usual. The hollow man shook a helmeted head. He would have time to ponder that later. As for now, he needed to prepare. More Big Daddies were on the way, and he would need every advantage he could scrounge up.

Delta stomped over to the far end of the cavernous space, where a block of vending machines had been leaned against what appeared to be the remains of a security booth. Its heavy door was slammed shut, but a crack in the glass allowed for a clear shot to a security panel held within, and a hack dart quickly opened the way. He stepped inside the small space tentatively, glancing around for anything useful. A large wall mount caught his attention. A massive set of fake pistols proclaiming "Power to the People" sat above the rest of the rounded device, and Delta promptly walked over to the interface. After some brief deliberation, he decided upon an upgrade to his bloody drill; a generator that could produce an electromagnetic field capable of deflecting projectiles would indeed be useful. He hefted the improved weapon experimentally before continuing to scour the small office space. A recorder had been stuck sideways into a drawer, keeping it ajar. The Big daddy picked it up and pressed play with a massive finger.

There was a crackle of static, and a nervous voice began.

"My, my name is Ian MacDonnel, and I am, or I guess was, the night watchman here at the Fontaine Loading Docks."

There was a heavy sigh before the voice continued.

"The whole city's gone to hell. First there was that attack at that fancy Kashmir joint, and the next thing you know, we got armed, splice mad hooligans running around shooting just about everything that moves. Never could afford to splice up myself, but I certainly ain't regretting now."

Another sigh was heaved, and the voice resumed, edgier, shakier than before.

"This place is at war and its only a matter of time before some whacko comes and tries beating down my door. I'm planning on hauling ass home, grabbing Victoria, and then getting the hell out of here. I'm leaving this recorder here in the security booth. If you're listening to this, and are sane enough to understand it, best of luck to you friend. You're gonna' need it."

The recording cut out with another burst of static, and Delta tucked it away with other such records of Rapture. Every scrap and whisper of past voices was another piece of the puzzle, a jigsaw image of the city's death. The Big Daddy grabbed a few rounds of ammo and a candy bar before heading back over to the vending machines. A few seconds later they were spitting out free items, and held drastically lower prices. The metal man had a knack for Rapture's machinery, and he used it to his advantage. He stocked up on ammunition of all kinds, First Aid Kits, and EVE Hypos. He knew he was going to need them.

Fully armed, Delta headed back to the door, pulling out his Rivet Gun and loading in a cartridge of Trap Rivets. He had little time and much to do.

The hapless Rosie had never stood a chance. Its fate was sealed the second Delta shot it with the first Heavy Rivet. Enraged, the golem of Rapture stormed forward through the doorway, only to be perforated by Trap Rivets, launching forth with a soft pop. The wounded Daddy staggered into the room, bellowing as it raised up its gun to fire. Delta brought up his drill, the massive auger whirring and spinning as it came to life. The Rosie's shots pinged of it harmlessly, deflected, Delta noted with satisfaction, by its newest upgrade. Delta countered with a roar of his own, an charged, drill held high as he swung it forward. Metal met metal with a grating screech and crash, and the Rosie crumpled as the drill connected with its helmet, lights beneath its portholes going dark. A final shot from its Rivet Gun flew off wildly before pinging off something hard and metallic. Delta followed the path of the shot, and grunted in surprise when he found it had struck a Rumbler, not far down the hall. The launcher toting behemoth's porthole eyes had turned a violent red and it was glaring directly at him. It took Delta a mere second to realize what was going on.

The Rosie had had now Sister, instead reporting back to pick up its new charge. It had arrived few moments before the others, and its final, misaimed shot had struck the Rumbler behind it. The angry suit clad creature was loading its launcher and pushing its Sister protectively behind it. Delta wasn't wasting any time either. His left hand pulsed with the power of Telekinesis, and he pulled out a launcher of his own, lobbing a Proximity Mine in the doorway before hopping out of the way of the rocket that came hurtling towards him. Delta backpedaled away from the doorway and the rigid, riveted corpse of the Rosie. The rounded form of a Mini-Turret came arcing down through the door, and the hollow man snatched it mid flight with Telekinesis before sending it flying into the wall to shatter. He heard the thundering booted footsteps of the Rumbler as it charged through the door, only to run head on into the mine, the explosion propelling it into the room on shaky feet. Delta wasted no time. A small swarm of hornets issued forth from his hand, before the honeycombs melted away and the eddying forces of Telekinesis returned. Between the bugs and volley of Heavy rivets launched at it, the Rumbler was completely out of sorts, stomping and swatting about madly at tiny assailants. The madcap dance brought the Big Daddy into the glare of a Security Camera, the light falling upon him as he spun about near an oil slick. The blare of the alarm blasted forth, and was quickly joined by the whirring of Security Bots. Bellowing, the Rumbler finally straightened out and leveled a shot straight towards his forefather, the rocket flying true.

The original Big Daddy caught the projectile dangerously close to impact, and held the spinning, hissing explosive before his face for a second before returning it to sender with a flick of his wrist. The rocket hurtled back to its origin, impacting the Rumbler's chest and bursting into a fireball. The oil the creature stood in ignited, immolating him as the deadly barrels next to where he stood simmered and hissed. Delta stepped back to survey his handiwork, catching the grenade the creature shot towards him as a last defiant act in a telekinetic grip before idly tossing it over his shoulder, back towards the door.

Inhuman grunts and bellows of pain and raged reached hi helmeted ears, and finally, the red barrels exploded with a flash of flame and smoke, spitting the Rumbler out of the fire and casting the charred body to the ground. The Little Sister rushed to the downed monster, tears streaming from her eyes. Delta sighed, and hurried over to the corpse, scooping up the girl, her grief suddenly forgotten.

He began to step towards the vent, only for his heavy sigh to be punctuated by pained grunts as a volley of rivets slammed into him and a rocket whizzed past. Roaring, Delta whirled around to face his attackers, the Sister atop his shoulder reaching a dainty hand down to wipe the grime and blood from his porthole. Standing near the door were a Rosie and a Rumbler, both protecting a Little sister and both, evidently, quite angry at him. Their suits held black scorch marks, evidence of an explosion, and his mind turned immediately to the grenade he had tossed aside, mentally berating himself for his carelessness. Delta gritted his helmet hidden teeth as squelching noises reached his ears, indicative of the EVE and healing fluids from First Aid Kits now flowing through his veins.

He gave a flick of his left hand, and a fleshy skein of electric blue goop formed. He lobbed the gel filled blob at the Rosie, strafing away behind a pillar to avoid both oncoming rockets and rivets. He peeked out for a moment, just in time to see the blue goop splatter all over the Rosie, and the Security Bots summoned by the first Rumbler lock on target. Three of the whirring little robots opened fire on the creature, keeping it more than occupied. The new Rumbler was a different story though. It gave a defiant roar and tossed forth a Mini-Turret, only for the little machine gun to be shot back at it with bone crushing force by a blast of Telekinesis. The projectile was enough to force the monstrosity to take a step backwards, but that was all Delta needed. The Rumbler's one foot fell back into a deep puddle, anda second later deadly blue volts were coursing through it, soliciting pained cries from the Daddy and screams of terror from its Sister. Delta spared a second to check on the Rosie. The Rivet Gun toting Daddy had managed to shoot down all but the last of the hovering Security Bots, but his final robotic opponent was pouring out smoke and flames. The original Big Daddy gave a grunt, whipping out his Spear gun and lading in one of the rocket powered projectiles it could fire.

The Rocket Spear flew true, striking the Rosie directly in the face. The crunch of broken glass could be heard as the spear penetrated the porthole, lodging itself in the doomed Daddy's face before pushing the body forward as the rocket hissed and sputtered. The armored corpse was pushed along by the jet of flame from the spear's end, skidding across the floor, and directly into a stack of old crates. The wooden boxes fell down upon it in a cascade of splintering wood, and satisfied with its demise, Delta returned his attentions to the Rumbler.

He turned back to face it, only to see the metallic body of a rocket and its flaming tail flying towards him. It impacted, and everything went red, blood tinting his vision, and his ears incessantly ringing. Through battered senses though, he could make out the shape of the Rumbler, and launched a second blast of lightning at it. It was no longer standing in the water, but the shot stunned it nonetheless, and Delta took advantage of the pause to pump more First Aid into his system before whipping out his Drill. The hollow man growled, revving up the bloody weapon. It was time to finish this.

He launched forward with a roar, crashing into the Rumbler and ramming the spinning drill into its chest, holding it there as the Rumbler groaned and roared its death rattle. Finally, the drill stopped spinning, the blood stopped spraying, and the only sound was Delta's ragged breath and the Sisters' muffled cries. He took a step back and surveyed the scene. Four Big Daddy's were dead, their bodies charred, riddled with holes, or buried under broken boxes. Two Little Sisters kneeled, crying over shattered bodies, one before his very feet. Delta heaved a pained sigh; he would need to find a Med-Station. Gently, he picked up the bawling Sister and deposited her onto his back, where she and her fellow passenger quickly began giggling. The Daddy stomped over to the third and final sister, carrying her in one arm as he returned to the vent.

Three flashes blinded him, and one by one three little girls thanked him before scurrying back down the metal hole. He reloaded, popping in specialty ammo as he walked over to the Vending Machines, ready to restock and repeat. Four down, six to go. That's when he heard it. Bloodcurdling screeches, worse than nails on chalkboard by a thousand fold, echoing about the cavernous space. Then there came another, and another. The Big Sisters were coming, and they were _not_ happy.

**Phew. Sorry that took so long, but this was a pain to write. Fun dreaming up, but a pain to write. Please keep up reviews and such. I always look forward to hearing back from you guys.**


	9. Sister Knows Best

**Disclaimer: I own a whole lot of nothing. Just this fic and my OC's. When we last left them, out heroes were in two very different situations. Delta is within the remains of Fontaine Futuristics, battling it out with fellow Big Daddies in a quest to free the last few Little Sisters, and from the sounds of it, the Big Sisters aren't too happy. Meanwhile, Eleanor and Jack have made their getaway from the now-ruined warehouse where she made her landing, with the freed Sisters and a few little "souvenirs" of Rapture in tow. Will Delta survive? Will Eleanor and Jack escape? Why am I wasting your time with excessive introductions? Read on to find answers to at least two of these ahead.**

**P.S. Special thanks to my beta reader, Markal, for his excellent revisions. Also, the previous chapter has been reposted with a few minor tweaks.**

The ear-splitting screeches of Big Sisters filled the cavernous room and froze Delta in his tracks. It was a rapid succession of piercing wails that assaulted and overpowered the senses as they struck. The hollow man managed to isolate five distinct, individual wails before his world stopped shaking and the full use of his senses returned. In a heartbeat, he took off in an earth-shaking sprint towards the block of vending machines, desperate to replenish his supplies before the Sisters' inevitable arrival. Hypos, first aid kits, and ammunition of all kinds were quickly stashed away, just as the second round of mind-rending screeches tore through the damp, fetid air. Time was of the essence.

Delta ran to the far side of the room and kept his back to the wall, eyes scanning the catwalks and rafters as he brought up his drill. Then he saw it: A glint of dirty light reflecting off tarnished metal, and a malevolent red glow, glinting high up through a spider's web of crisscrossed steel girders. There was barely time for a single breath before a lithe helmeted figure catapulted onto Delta's chest. A glowing red porthole filled his vision as the Big Daddy was forced back a step, the impact knocking the wind from him. A moment later the Big Sister leapt off of him, somersaulting through the air to land in a crouched position a few yards away. A piercing screech rent the air. Delta hefted his drill in response, ready to charge, only for a trio of fireballs to slam into him from another direction. Roaring in pain, the Big Daddy whirled around, only to find that he was facing another Big Sister. Vision still tinged with blood, he wasted no time and gave flick of his wrist. A fleshy sac of blood-red gel formed in his palm. Like a cannon, Delta's arm launched the skein of red goo towards the offending Sister before the Big Daddy took cover behind a pile of boxes.

There was a bloodcurdling screech and a tortured shriek of colliding metal. Delta took a quick peek from behind his stack of crates as the two Big Sisters flew at each other with needles, plasmids and high-flying kicks. Then the sharp patter of approaching footsteps, swift and booted, reached Delta's ears, barely standing out from the racket of the melee. He turned around to locate its source, only for the kick of an onrushing Big Sister to strike his helmeted face. He fell back with a grunt, tossing another crimson polyp at the new assailant. Stricken by the plasmid, the twisted creature of Rapture howled in rage, looking about for the nearest thing to kill, which unfortunately still happened to be Delta. Her needle raised and poised to strike, the Big Sister charged, only to be frozen solid in a block of ice. The injured Big Daddy then quickly threw two more Hypnotize globules at the battle-locked Big Sisters, refilling their dose of mind-numbing rage, before making a hasty retreat back to the nearest health station.

Time precious, Delta didn't bother to hack the little machine, content to fork over a full payment for the sake of haste. He gave a quick sigh of relief as the station went to work, healing his wounds and replenishing his EVE. Gene tonics had their perks. He risked a quick look back at his opponents, noting that the Sister he'd frozen had broken free of her icy prison and joined the mindless free-for-all. All three were looking quite worse for the wear. Delta brought out his Rivet Gun, intent upon accelerating the process. The metal man launched a few Heavy rivets into the lone, un-hypnotized Big Sister before yet another ear-splitting screech came from somewhere behind him. He turned around quickly, bracing himself for an impact as recent experience had taught. The preparation was not unwarranted. The oncoming Sister slammed into him like an oncoming freight train, ramming him back against the tiled wall upon which the medical station was mounted.

Through blurred vision, he could see the Sister raise her needle high, like a cobra poised to strike, as she then plunged it down towards him. The hollow man grunted with exertion as he twisted out of the way, only to be shaken about by a small explosion. Vision quickly clearing, the Big Daddy looked to the source. Delta couldn't help but smile slightly beneath his helmet. By wriggling as he did, he had caused the Sister to miss her mark. The massive needle had sunk straight into the medical station behind him; the resulting impact causing a small explosion of fried circuits and flying first aid kits. He quickly turned to the Sister. Her needle was thoroughly mangled, its tip warped and bent by the explosion. It appeared that the Sister herself was disoriented from the blast, drunkenly stumbling about. Delta wasted no time.

Revving the drill, the Big Daddy charged his opponent, pinning her to the wall as she had done to him. The weapon's augers whirled around, throwing off sparks and blood where they struck metal armor and then the flesh beneath. Then there was the hiss of escaping gas as the oxygen tank slung over her back ruptured. Finally disentangling herself from the bloody drill, the Big Sister threw him back with a swing of the near destroyed needle. Enraged, she screeched as she held her hands up high, three glowing fireballs forming in the air above her, as she then flung the burning orbs straight towards Delta.

The Big Daddy was prepared though; he had seen the same trick from every Big Sister in Rapture. He ducked away from the first two fiery projectiles then caught the third in a telekinetic grip before he shot it back at the now-charging Big Sister. Fire met combustible gas in a cacophony of roaring, crackling pops and hisses as the leaking air tank ignited, throwing forth blazing orange tongues of flame. The Big Sister, flambéed by her own tank, fell down on one knee screeching in agonized pain and rage. Delta calmly stepped forward, pulled out his shotgun, and then promptly unloaded both barrels into the glowing red porthole. A final death shriek, shattering glass, and the crimson light died, replaced by the soft glow of firelight. One down, four to-

His fleeting moment of peace was rudely interrupted by a barrage of fireballs. As most of the searing missiles finding their mark, Delta roared in pain before the healing fluids of his first aid kits could get to work. He turned to find three Big Sisters, all worse for wear from their combat, rushing towards him. Evidently, the effects of the Hypnosis plasmid had worn off. The original Big Daddy grunted; he knew fighting all three at once would be suicidal. Divide and conquer was the only logical way to go.

He returned with a barrage of his own, three crimson Hypnosis skeins finding their marks and three Big Sisters subsequently returning to each other's throats. Booming explosions and pings and clashes of metal scraping against metal reached his ears, but for the moment Delta had a brief moment of respite to collect his thoughts. His mind was in combat mode; furiously crunching the numbers and plotting the best course of action.

One Sister was down. His mind raced. Three were, for the moment, out of the picture. That left only the as-of-yet unseen fifth and final Big Sister. Until she appeared, she was an unknown element, a wild variable. It was best to work with the absolutes, and presently, there were three much-weakened ones right in front of him.

Swarms of killer hornets flew forth from one hand, a pause was taken to replenish EVE with the squelch of a hypo, and then bursts of automatic fire spewed forth from the massive Gatling gun, the flare of the muzzle flash chasing away encroaching shadows.

Weakened from the mindless blows of her fellows, one Sister fell to the leaden onslaught. The other two quickly regained their senses and darted behind stacks of boxes in opposite directions of each other. Delta roared in anger as he traded the rotary machine gun for his launcher. He was _not _in the mood for this. There were piles of water-soaked crates both to the left and to the right, and he knew not which ones sheltered the Sisters. He didn't feel like waiting around to find out.

The wormy, rotten wood of the piled crates was blown to pieces from the explosion of the grenade, leaving only a plume of smoke and dust in its place. He would smoke them out, one pile at a time. The patter of light, dashing feet was heard. Turning, he saw one Sister rush towards him, bracing her legs for a flying kick. The metal man grinned mirthlessly behind the faceless visage of his helmet; experience had bred skill, and he knew what she was going to do. Speed was of the essence; he had mere seconds. Instinct took over.

One. The Sister left the ground, kicking leg raised and extended, screeching like a banshee. Two. Delta squared up and faced her, tossing his launcher aside at the last second. Three. Heavy gloved hands cradled the Sister's foot as it connected with his chest, gripping tight with armored fingers. Four. One metal-clad leg lurched backwards, the other pivoting to the side. Five. The Sister wailed in rage, grasping the situation far too late, as her momentum was swiftly used against her.

With a throaty growl, Delta swung his foe like an Olympic hammer toss, leaning back as he spun and kept the Sister's flailing form aloft. Within half a rotation, he turned to the wall behind him and the Sister was released, screeching for a moment before her skidding impact with the floor abruptly silenced her. The nightmarish enforcer of Sofia Lamb's twisted will skidded over the tiles into a deteriorated section of the wall that had bits of wire and pipe poking out of the crumbling plaster. The Big Daddy rushed over to his shaken prey, sparing not a moment. Standing over the scrabbling creature, he took hold of the Sister's spherical helmet with both hands, raising it high. The Sister screeched, limbs desperately flailing about, but her fate was sealed. With a roar, Delta slammed the red porthole into a jagged length of rusted pipe poking from the ruined wall. The glass shattered. The hapless Sister fell silent.

Breathing raggedly, Delta scrambled over to reclaim his launcher, quickly scanning the length of the warehouse as he did so. Two shadows flitted about in the shadowy rafters above. The two remaining Sisters, both the injured and the unseen, were waiting for him. The Big Daddy roared his challenge and loaded in a heat-seeking rocket.

Eleanor awoke with a jolt. Cold sweat shone on her brow, her breathing was heavy, and her heart raced. Her vision was clouded and her senses felt numbed. Slowly, formless shapes took definition, colors sharpened, and sounds returned. Distant, muffled ringing slowly intensified with increasing clarity. She groaned as her head pounded with the noise.

"...waking up! Dad, c'mere, she's waking up!"

Her vision finally cleared. Standing over her was a raven-haired girl, her own age, or perhaps a bit younger. An oversized grey T-shirt draped her slender form down to her mid-thighs, where a pair of flannel pajama pants then took over the rest. Brown eyes looked over Eleanor, holding a mixture of studious appraisal, fascination, and the slightest twinge of fear. A few padded footsteps later, a tired-looking Jack joined the unknown girl. He rested one weathered hand on the shoulder of Eleanor's observer, an apparent gesture of reassurance. The girl looked back up at him.

"Thank you Katie. Why don't you go help your sisters with the little ones now?"

The girl nodded, giving Eleanor one last inquisitive stare before she turned and walked out of the room. Finished with watching her leave, Eleanor turned her attention to her surroundings. She struggled to sit up, pushing her hands down into the soft, plush material of the furniture she found herself lying on. _A sofa or bed_, she concluded.

Rising up into a sitting position, her head swam for a moment before normalcy returned. Her conclusion had indeed been correct. She found herself seated on a worn old couch, sinking into the cushions as she leaned back into its comforting depths. A tall lamp in the corner gave soft, mellow illumination to the space, supplemented by wayward beams from streetlights, peeking in through the windows despite the best efforts of the curtains. Jack took a moment to drag a chair across the thick shag carpeting, stopped in front of her, and plopped down on its seat.

"What . . . what happened . . ." Eleanor mumbled, reaching up to rub the sleep from her eyes. It was only then that she noticed that her gloves and the rest of her Big Sister suit were gone. Jolted awake, she gave herself a quick once-over. She was wearing a white dress, the very same one she had worn back in Rapture. She had been wearing it beneath her suit, albeit in a less than comfortable manner. Her right wrist was bandaged, with the slightest hint of blood staining its underside. She looked back up at Jack, utterly confused.

The man sighed before he began answering Eleanor's unspoken questions in quick succession.

"We got here, and you just passed out. Scared those little girls something awful. You kept babbling about in your sleep. We managed to get you out of that suit and onto the sofa. My girls have been keeping an eye on the other girls who came with you. That cut on your wrist is from that oversized needle of yours. It had an IV line feeding right into your bloodstream. The suit's safe, along with the rest of the stuff we brought. You were out for about an hour."

He heaved a heavy sigh.

"Christ," he grumbled, "I need a smoke."

"You threw them all out Dad," came the chiding voice of a teenage girl, calling out from somewhere beyond the room. "You said you were quitting."

"Don't remind me," he muttered, before returning attention to Eleanor, who looked at him with curiosity.

"My daughters," he answered, exhaustion seeping into his voice.

"Ten years ago, five cured Little Sisters and I escaped Rapture in a bathysphere and set a course here, to New York. Sailed in unnoticed, kept to the sphere. Few days later, Doc Tenenbaum shows up with the rest of the freed Sisters. We traded off a few of Rapture's trinkets for some dollars and got ourselves set up with fake papers and everything. Money talks in this town."

He gave a half-hearted smile. "Some things never change." He paused and swallowed, forcing himself to squash the desire for a cigarette.

"Anyways, I set myself up as an engineer and eventually got this townhouse. The Doctor had plans to quietly feed the girls into the system, to find them new homes and new lives." The man bit his lip, giving a wry smile. "All the same. . . I just couldn't let go of those first five I came up with. We were all strangers to this world, and I guess I just didn't want to be alone in it. I love 'em like my own."

He gave a soft, mournful sigh.

"I've been keeping tabs on the others, making sure they all went to good families, playing the guardian angel whenever I can. But these five have got a special place in my heart."

He sighed and leaned back in the creaking chair. Eleanor was silent, her questions answered, until her brow furrowed suddenly. Face creasing, the man sat back up.

"What's wrong?"

Memories returned in a flood. Dreams and nightmares she had endured in restless sleep. Bits and pieces, flashing fragments of another life. A life far away, submerged deep within a festering, forsaken pit, seen through the dirtied glass of a blood-stained porthole.

"It's my father," Eleanor said softly. Her face turned white as porcelain, and she met Jack's gaze. "I think he's still alive..."

**End Chapter. Many thanks to all my reviewers, past and present, and please continue in the future. Feedback is what keeps this fic going. Until next time, see ya.**


	10. Daddy Dearest

**Disclaimer: I only own this fic, my characters, etc. As much as I wish I owned the series, I, sadly, do not. We left Delta deep down in the remains of Fontaine Futuristics, battling it out with Big Daddies and Big Sisters in an attempt to free the last of the Little Sisters, and Eleanor and her rescued sisters topside in NYC with Jack, and Eleanor has just realized that Delta is still very much alive. As always, many thanks to my beta reader, Markal.**

Eleanor sat up straight as a board, no easy feat with the cushy depths of the couch slowly sucking her in, her eyes. Jack stared at her, his brow furrowed with worry and deep thought.

"What do you mean?" he finally questioned.

Eleanor, pale-faced, turned her wide-eyed gaze to him.

"We . . . we were joined using a different kind of mechanism than future Big Daddies and Little Sisters. They called it the 'Pairbond', and . . . it was some sort of mental and physiological bond that joined a Daddy to a single Sister, forever.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before continuing.

"He . . . my Father . . . needed to protect me, to always remain beside me, or his body would shut down."

Guilt played across her face, but she carried on.

"For my part I could, to an extent, sense him and his feelings, sometimes even see through his eyes. While I was unconscious, I . . . saw things."

Her voice trailed off with a pained note. Jack looked at her intently.

"What did you see?" he asked gently. "You can tell me."

Eleanor was silent for a moment that stretched into a small eternity, the sounds of giggling little girls drifting in from other rooms nearby.

"Rapture," she finally whispered. Her voice was hoarse. "I saw Rapture. Saw it through a dirty glass porthole. Felt every shot he fired, every tear and swing of the drill, and all that . . . that bloody rage."

She shook her head, on the verge of tears.

"I had never known. I mean, I had felt him before, sensed him before, but it was never this . . ." she paused slightly, grasping for words, ". . . _in depth_." She gave a small, rueful smile.

"But, underneath all of that rage and hate, there was always this burning desire, this obsession to find me." The smile faded. "But whether it's love or just the Pairbond conditioning, I . . . I don't know."

Fat salty tears began to pour down her face as her eyes reddened. She began to sniffle through the teardrops.

"But I know it's him. I'm sure it's him. And I left him down there . . . Oh God . . ."

All coherent conversation broke down as the young woman was wracked by sobs. Jack knew what to do. One did not live with five teenage girls without having learned what to do at times like this. Calmly, the weathered man slowly leaned forward in his chair and took Eleanor into a tight hug.

Eleanor buried her tear-stained face and tangled hair into Jack's shoulder, sobbing loudly.

"It'll be alright," he assured her, voice soft. "It'll all be alright. It's not your fault. One of the Vita-Chambers must've revived him when he sank back down."

The girl brought up her head to speak, only to find coherent speech beyond her grief-addled ability.

Jack continued. "It hurts, I know it does. But it won't help you by feeling guilty over this. It's nothing you did or intended, it's just what happened. Now if he really is alive and kicking down there, then you can bet that if everything you told me is true, he's going to be looking for you, and come hell or high water he'll find ya'."

Jack loosened the girl from his shoulder and gently tilted up her chin so that her eyes met his.

"It's nothing you did, and there's nothing you can do now but keep yourself alive, and be ready for him. It hurts, but you can overcome it."

Eleanor gave a weak nod before heaving a mighty sniffle and collapsing back onto Jack's shoulder. The man patiently sighed and hunkered down for the wait.

Standing in the doorway, a slender teenage girl not unlike Eleanor watched silently as the man consoled Rapture's newest refugee. She smiled slightly. Her dad always knew just what to say to a person.

A heat-seeking rocket streaked up into the rafters before it erupted into a fireball. An unearthly screech rent the air as a lithe, smoldering form fell out from the shadows, tumbling downwards to the floor beneath. The tumbling figure landed atop a pile of crates with a thunderous crash, limbs splayed about wildly like a ragdoll. Delta gave a grunt of satisfaction. Only one Big Sister remained. He loaded in another rocket and scanned the darkness, finger twitching on the trigger. The mysterious opponent had yet to even show her helmet-clad face, but he knew she was there. Nothing could make as ungodly a wail as a Big Sister.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a blur of movement, accompanied by the patter of light feet. With a roar, the hollow man whirled around to face its source, ready to unleash hell upon his unseen opponent. No shot was fired. Standing a short distance in front of him was the elusive fifth Sister, but that was all. She merely stood there, staring at him though a lit porthole. No crackling fireballs formed in her hands, no deadly needle was raised and poised to strike. Its blood-red glow was absent. In its place was a soft yellow, which then abruptly flickered to red. The light blinked back-and-forth between wrathful crimson and warm amber like a haywire traffic light, never certain as to what to settle upon. The two metal monsters were silent as the grave ; the only sounds in the warehouse disturbing it were the drip of leaking water and Delta's deep breathing. Finally the colored tug-of-war ended as the porthole glowed a buttery yellow.

His motions slow and deliberate, Delta carefully replaced his launcher with an old double-barreled shotgun, its wooden stock splintered, rusty steel barrels sawn off by a jagged cut, and an intricate revolving mechanism affixed to its loading chambers. The Big Sister seemed to tense at the sight of the weapon. Abruptly, a _whimper_ pierced the silence, high pitched and metallic. Delta was disinclined to believe his ears. What came next gave the hollow man even greater pause.

"Daaaaaaaddy . . ."

It split the air, shrill as nails on a chalkboard, yet, in its own way, mournful and afraid. Delta's mind raced. Who beneath that helmet would call him by that name? Eleanor? Impossible. But could it be? He had to know.

Hands shaking, he tucked the shotgun away and slowly stepped forward. The Sister seemed to shudder, moving back ever so slightly. The Big Daddy paused, then resumed, slowly moving forward one agonizing step at a time. The Sister gradually ceased her fearful retreat, and soon he stood within reach of her. With unsteady hands, he reached forward, undoing the clasps that held the Big Sister's helmet in place. There was a hiss of releasing air pressure, and as he lifted up the metal sphere, the lights within it died. The helmet fell to the floor with a resounding thud, and Delta gazed at the face beneath.

The features of the teenage girl were gaunt and pale, the result of a harsh, nightmarish existence that had never seen the sun. Long brown wisps cascading down from a dirty rat's nest of hair swayed in front of her face, partially obscuring the long, thin scar that ran down her cheek. But nothing could hide her eyes. Two glowing yellow orbs stared back at him. They were the eyes of a Little Sister all grown up. This was not Eleanor Lamb, but it was a face he knew nonetheless. Broken, hazy memories came back in a flood.

Rapture was very much alive; its inhabitants parting like the Red Sea before him as he stomped down its streets. Eleanor led him on, her little hand barely wrapping around one of his gloved fingers. The glitz and glamour of Rapture was lost on his chained mind; there were only two emotions he could now feel, a vigilant contentment and murderous rage. He rumbled down the street, the fear and hate-filled glares of nearby pedestrians rolling off him like oil on water. He did not comprehend them, nor did he care.

Eleanor turned to him, her face alight with excitement.

"ADAM, Daddy! This way!"

Giddily, she tugged at his arm, taking them down a dim alley. Puddles and a few intrepid vermin, descendants of bathysphere stowaways, occupied the path before them. They continued onwards until the echoes of malicious laughter reached his ears. With one arm he hefted Eleanor atop his back, with the other he pulled out the drill. Redoubling his pace, Delta thundered down the alley, emerging in a dark, dank space between buildings, a gritty bit of Rapture never meant to be seen by its well-to-do upper class. A workman's corpse lay slumped against a fuel barrel, his coveralls stained with water, grease, and blood. In the dead center of the gloom was the crumpled form of a fellow Alpha-series, its Sister crouched atop it, tears streaming down her face as blood oozed from a gash on her cheek. Three men encircled her, grinning wolfishly, their crude weapons held high and threatening before them.

Eleanor screamed. The men turned, their smiles fading. The nearest Splicer pulled out a pistol, a single shot ringing out before pinging off Delta's armored suit. The Big Daddy roared and charged, the drill whirring to life. Moments later, the alley was splattered in blood, the corpses of the men scattered all around. Eleanor hugged him tightly, and he felt content. The other Little Sister, now bereft of her own guardian, looked up at him, and he hazarded a glance down at her. She stood and stared back, starry eyed and mournful.

"Daddy," she whimpered softly.

"Daddy . . ."

Shaken from his past, Delta gazed once more at the girl that now stood in front of him. For a certainty, the Little Sister from memory and the Big Sister at present were one and the same. The face, the hair color, and the scar from the cut . . . they had to be. Ghostly yellow eyes gazed back at him adoringly, and a small smile wreathed her pale face. The arrival of a new noise, however, wiped it away.

The distinctive click-clack of a Spider Splicer's hook-aided acrobatics from above turned her smile into an animal snarl, before her face contorted into a cruel, twisted visage and a bloodcurdling screech erupted from her mouth. Soft yellow eyes flashed crimson. Arms raised high; she launched a trio of fireballs into the gloom. They burnt their way through the darkness above until they reached their target, setting the mutated man alight and sending him crashing down to the ground nearby, screaming bloody murder as he continued to roast. The wretched creature landed face-first with a sickening crunch, before it struggled to its feet, shrieking with pain. The Sister wasted no time.

She dashed over to the downed Splicer, hair whipping behind her, red eyes glowing like fiery pits of Hell. A mighty leaping somersault through the air launched her over the pitiful creature and onto his far side. Grinning madly, she plunged her massive needle into the base of his neck, the gleaming syringe sticking out at a crazy angle as it slid into him. There was a slight squelch of suction and then a light gurgling noise as the ill-fated Splicer's insides were sucked out, but all other sounds were quickly drowned out as the Sister reared her head back, ratty brown hair whipping about her head. She let out a banshee scream. Even the Splicer's feeble death throes were obscured.

The scream faded as quickly as it came, and the Sister extracted the needle from the freshly-made corpse with a sickening pop as she stepped back and took a deep breath. She returned her glare to Delta, her eyes still blood red. She stepped forwards, needle poised and ready, and Delta quickly pulled out his drill in wary alarm. She took another step, grinning murderously, but then jerked to a stop. Her eyes widened, the wicked grin fading away as the crimson glowing orbs above it dimmed back to a mild yellow. A meek, blissful smile blossomed on her face.

"Daddy," she murmured happily.

The ONI Commander sat at his desk, rubbing at his temples as he found himself in need of a stiff drink for the umpteenth time as he reviewed the report brought to him by the gruff Captain Kombes.

"Christ," he spat, leaning back in his chair. "Damn FBI can't do anything right. They let whoever it was piloting that thing get away, they let themselves get wrapped up like Christmas presents, and to top it all off they let that warehouse go up in flames. Is there any salvageable evidence from it?"

The Captain shook his head.

"Firemen are still working on putting it out, but from the intensity of the blaze I doubt we'll be able to get anything conclusive from the ashes."

The Commander swore.

"What a disaster." He shook his head. "Alert the President as to the current situation, then get me Admiral Thompson and General Halkner." The man's face darkened. "If we can't find out where it went, we'll start looking at where it came _from_."

**End Chapter. Thanks to all my reviewers, especially to one "Hexates" for a hefty dose of inspiration. Please, please, please keep up the feedback; hearing from you guys is what keeps me pumping out more chapters. That being said, I'm afraid that as the school year draws to a close, and academic hell breaks loose as teachers rush onwards to finals, I might need to take a quick break from spinning this tale of Rapture. Until next time, jschneids, signing off.**


	11. Alice in Wonderland

**Disclaimer: Yes, I do secretly own the entire BioShock franchise, because someone with that creative license would so obviously use it to create a simple fan fiction. Ah, I love sarcasm. As always, thanks to the mighty Markal for his excellent beta-ing. Anyways, after a little break, we're back with Eleanor up on the surface with the rescued Little Sisters, Jack and his 'family' of rescued Little Sisters, now teenagers, keeping them hidden from the government. Meanwhile, Delta is still trapped in the hell of Rapture, slogging about through the ruins, enlisting the aid of some familiar faces, and one not so familiar...**

Everyone in the ticket booth had been monitoring Delta's progress via the camera atop his helmet. However, a hefty blow to Delta's head during the fighting had knocked out the feed. After nearly an hour of anxiety, relief quickly spread through the current inhabitants of the Atlantic Express station when a train pulled in; its doors hissing open to reveal Subject Delta. That relief lasted until the moment his companion was revealed. A Big Sister stepped out of the darkness behind him, the portholes of her helmet radiating a soft yellow glow. Relief quickly turned to panic as Tenenbaum and Grace frantically ushered the little girls into the security of the ticket booth. Stanley fumbled for his pistol.

The lithe, armored figure seemed to stare at him through her helmet's porthole, the previously-amber glow turning blood-red at the sight of Stanley's quivering weapon. With a screech, she leapt towards him, needle slicing through the air as booted feet struck the former reporter square in the chest. The blow knocked him to the damp concrete floor and sent the pistol skittering away across the tracks. She crouched over him and raised the gleaming needle high, ready to plunge it clear through his neck. Stanley clenched his eyes tight, unable to bear the sight of his approaching death. It never came.

There was a guttural growl. Cracking open one eyelid, Stanley could see the massive form of the original Big Daddy standing behind the Sister, one gloved hand clenched tightly onto her wrist, holding the needle back. In one swift motion, Delta quickly pulled her off of Stanley into a standing position, firmly took hold of both her shoulders, and stared into her porthole. A disapproving grunt rumbled from the throat of the metal man. Something that sounded suspiciously like a sheepish whimper squeaked out from the Sister's helmet in reply, her porthole reverting back to its original dull yellow in the process.

Stanley Poole, true to the cowardly survivalist's instinct he'd garnered for ten years in Rapture, had taken advantage of his attacker's momentary distraction to scramble to his feet and into the ticket booth, slamming the door behind him. He was going to need a new change of underwear. The noise from the doorway broke the two golems of Rapture out of their reverie. Staring at the door through which the others had retreated, Delta heaved a deep, frustrated sigh and shook his head. Taking hold of the spherical helmet of his armored counterpart, he lifted it away.

A mess of dirty, dark-brown hair tumbled forth, revealing the pale face of a teenage girl and two glowing eyes. Taking a tight hold of one of her hands, Delta pulled her over to the window of the ticket booth, through which Tenenbaum, Grace, and the cowardly Stanley were all staring in captive, wide-eyed fascination. A flicker of recognition crossed the German doctor's aged face, followed by an expression of pained, regretful sorrow. Gently patting the head of one of the little girls that was fearfully clutching her leg, she stepped forward, her mouth drawn tight.

"Oh dear," she muttered.

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo

It had taken a few minutes for Tenenbaum to gather up some of her medical instruments and quietly step out into the station, locking the door behind her as she took a deep breath and began to walk over to the bench where the Big Sister had taken a seat. Along with her helmet, she had also been relieved of her oversized needle, courtesy of Delta.

As far as the Big Daddy was concerned, the examination went exceptionally well, the Sister only attempting to kill the doctor a mere three times. Each time her eyes would turn a fearsome crimson, only to have Delta place two massive gloved hands on her shoulders and growl menacingly in order to dissuade her. After a tense exam, Tenenbaum stepped back, her face streaked with sweat out of both nerves and terror. In her possession were three new blood samples and a lock of hair taken from the Big Sister's head. She then turned to Delta.

"I will analyze these samples and see to what can be done for her. In the meantime," her face hardening as she continued, "I wish for you to keep her away from the little ones. There is no telling what she may do in her current state."

With that, she turned around and walked briskly back for the safety of the ticket booth. Delta, staring after the departing doctor, sighed and took the Big Sister's hand into his own as he led her into a passenger car. The helmet and needle were left leaning against a pillar. The coach groaned with the unexpected weight. Delta thudded down onto a bench. The Sister tentatively took a seat next to him, before letting loose a mighty yawn and leaning over, letting her head fall onto Delta's lap.

"Sleepy time is here..." she murmured as she drifted off into dreamland.

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo

The well of Eleanor's sorrow finally ran dry. She couldn't remember for how long she had been spouting salty tears, but eventually, she could cry no more. Still sniffling, she released her grip on Jack, her tearstains leaving damp marks on his flannel shirt. The man gave her a silent, reassuring smile as he turned and quietly left the room. Bringing her legs up and hugging her knees to her chest, Eleanor sat upon the plush couch, her eyes still red from grief. A few moments later, someone else entered the room. Looking up, Eleanor found herself facing the girl who had been watching over her when she had first awoken inside Jack's home. Katie, as she recalled her name, was still clad in that oversized t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

Even in the dim light and through her tear-blurred vision, Eleanor could make out the look of apprehension on the other girl's face. Taking a deep breath, Katie stepped forward and plopped down next to her on the couch. Eleanor let go of her knees and turned to meet the gaze of her couch-mate. Katie gave her a long, thorough once-over before she pursed her lips and finally spoke.

"You know, we really ought to get you into something besides that old dress. It just looks nasty now."

Eleanor was caught off guard. That was the last thing she had expected this girl to say.

"I . . . I beg your pardon?"

Katie just rolled her eyes at Eleanor's British accent.

"Those clothes, Mary Poppins. That dress is stained with sweat, grease, ocean water, and only God knows what else. We gotta get you cleaned up; find you something else to wear."

Eleanor opened her mouth to protest, but was quickly cut off.

"No buts. Besides, you kinda smell like a sewer at this point, and that's just no good."

She leaned back and shrugged, as if still appraising the new arrival. "Between the five of us, we're bound to have something that'll fit you."

With those words, Katie turned to the doorway. "Oh Masha," she called off in a singsong voice, "we've got work to do!"

"Will you shut it, Katie! You're giving Dad a migraine and the neighbors will get pissed again."

Katie just rolled her eyes.

"Yah, love you too Liz!"

She turned back to Eleanor, grinning mischievously.

"See," she said, "one big happy family."

Another raven-haired girl of Katie's age, somewhat taller and a fair bit paler in complexion, stood in the doorway, dressed much like her sister. Dark curls fell in a curtain around her shoulders.

"Well, I see you've met the family loudmouth," the girl, whom Eleanor could only assume to be Masha, remarked dryly.

Once again, Katie rolled her eyes. "And here's the family ice queen. Sister dearest," she added in a voice oozing with sarcasm," we have some work to do in order to get this Brit presentable and-"

"Really, it'll be fine, I-" Eleanor's weak protests were to no avail.

Katie cut her off again, even more bluntly than before. "You smell like bad fish."

Masha just shrugged. "You kind of do," she agreed.

Katie clapped her hands. "Then it's settled," she exclaimed, taking hold of Eleanor's hand and dragging her off the couch. "We'll get you a shower and find you some new clothes. Come on, Masha!"

With Eleanor in tow and Masha bringing up the rear, Katie stormed upstairs towards the bathroom, silently hoping her efforts would keep their guest's mind off of Rapture.

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Delta wasn't quite sure when he had drifted to sleep, but footsteps upon the station roused him. He spared a quick glance down at the girl resting on his lap. She remained asleep, a slight smile on her lips; nothing made a Sister, Big or Little, feel more safe and content than a vigilant Big Daddy. He ran a heavy hand across her head as gently as he could, yearning to see and hold his own 'daughter'.

Tenenbaum entered the railcar, standing in the doorway as the skirts of her dress flapped about her legs like some forlorn flag. With as much poise and grace as could be mustered in her current state, she took a seat across from Delta, hands folded upon her lap. Her weary eyes were warm and kind, but tempered with sorrow and loss. Her gaze momentarily rested upon the slumbering Big Sister before travelling up to the porthole of Delta's suit.

"Herr Delta," she started, voice solemn, "I have found out much."

She paused, sighing.

"I have been able to recover a significant number of the case files from my former place of . . . _employment_." She spat out the last word in disgust before regaining her composure.

"Her name is Alice Jackson. She is . . . an orphan." The woman's face darkened. "Her parents were distinguished photographers, before they were killed . . . at Dionysus Park."

Delta fought to hold back his smoldering rage. He knew the doctor felt the same way; Stanley Poole, the man who had brought cold, icy death to the inhabitants of Sofia Lamb's experimental commune, was merely a room away. Tenenbaum continued.

"After the successful bonding between you and Eleanor, this girl was one of the first to follow . . . and thus she became one of the Pairbond project's first travesties." Her sorrowful gaze spoke volumes. "But you already know of this, you saw it for yourself. She was practically broken by the loss of her original Protector." A pained, guilt-ridden expression washed over the doctor's face. "I . . . I was told that she would be rehabilitated, returned to humanity as far as it could be possible. But the lies continued, even long after I left the project. Then of course, soon afterwards, the city began to die."

Tenenbaum forced a small smile at the hollow man.

"But there is one constant in those files, Herr Delta. Ever since that night, she became fixated upon you, the Big Daddy that saved her, the one who took over the place in her heart where her old Protector had once been. That is why she now follows you. It is the power of that single memory, buried deep beneath all of the mental conditioning placed upon her by Sofia Lamb."

The Big Daddy sat still and silent. There was so much that he wanted to say, and no way to do it, his throat and vocal cords one ruined, scarred mass. One of his hands clenched and unclenched in frustrated silence. The doctor, noticing Delta's unconscious action, almost imperceptibly widened her smile.

"Actions speak louder than words, my friend. Remember that. Now then, down to business."

She thrust her hand into one of her coat pockets and withdrew an old hypo in one fluid motion. It was filled with what looked suspiciously like ordinary, regular water. The metal man gave a scoffing grunt; he was unimpressed. Tenenbaum raised a brow.

"Do not let appearances deceive you, Herr Delta. This . . . well, it will not cure her completely. My corrective plasmid was designed for young children, not teenagers. I have altered some of the original formula based upon the readings I took, as well as some of my theories on how Dr. Alexander was able to help return Eleanor to mental lucidity. It is not perfect, but it is a start, and should help wipe away some of what Sofia Lamb inflicted upon her."

The woman abruptly stood up with hypo in hand.

"Well," she said, idly brushing off her skirts, "we had best begin, then."

Gently, Tenenbaum took hold of the sleeping girl's wrist. The older woman carefully threaded the syringe into an IV port mounted into the girl's forearm, meant for accommodating a hydraulic line to the monstrous needle that all Big Sisters wielded. She then pressed the plunger, forcing the chemical cocktail into the girl's bloodstream. The doctor stepped back.

For a few tense moments, nothing happened, the wait dragging on into a small eternity. Abruptly, glowing eyes flashed open, a haunting scream burst from pale lips, and the girl arched her back upwards, her whole body going rigid. As quickly as it began, it was over. Her body went limp like a puppet cut from its strings, and fell back into Delta's arms. Her eyes drooped shut. The only sounds in the car came from the breathing of both a tired old doctor and one of the monsters her work had helped to forge. Before either of them could move, however, there came a gasp. Alice's eyes opened, no longer aglow. Wide pupils ringed by brown irises took their place, terrified beyond measure.

She shot up from her reclining position, took hold of Delta's arm, and looked about wildly; her face gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. The long, thin scar on her cheek glistened in the dim light of the railcar.

"Daddy!" she cried, her breathing rapid. "Daddy, wh-where am I? What's-"

It was at that moment she laid eyes on Tenenbaum, and in a flash, one hand was raised high, a fireball building up and raging in its palm. Her face was contorted into a vicious snarl. The doctor cringed; her back to the metal wall of the car, but the fire suddenly sputtered out and died. The girl's face untwisted into an expression of pained confusion.

"I . . . I . . . What's going on? Who . . . where . . ." The girl cried out and held her hands to her head, her grip on Delta's arm relinquished. Tears began to stream from her eyes.

"So many, many pictures in my head . . . Sisters and Angels . . . The man with the white coat and mask! No, get away! No! It hurts, Daddy! Make it stop! Make them stop. . ."

The teenage girl, Alice, Big Sister no longer, broke down into sobs. She hugged Delta tight and let her tears stream down the metal plates of his armored suit.

"It hurts Daddy, make it stop, make them go away. . ." she murmured, her words muffled by tears.

Tenenbaum sat down heavily, her face pale from the near-death encounter with Alice.

"Oh, child. . ." she lamented quietly. "You poor, poor, child. . ."

**End Chapter. Well, what did you think? Please, feedback is the fuel that keeps this fic running. Also, sorry about the delay there, but I'm afraid real life must take precedent sometimes. Anyways this is jschneids, signing off.**


	12. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Disclaimer: Must we go through this every time? I do not own the BioShock franchise. Now, while my team of cat burglars and con men get to work on resolving that issue, let's return to the story, shall we?**

Jack sighed. It had been a long night thus far. The clock on his nightstand firmly announced that the time had stretched far into the wee hours of morning, yet the man could not sleep. He had been restless, his mind racing, and so he retrieved the box full of Rapturian audio recordings he had kept from so long ago. The weathered cardboard box, with its edges frayed and patched together with tape, was now all but overflowing with new additions to its collection. Eleanor had brought a plethora of new diaries, frozen memories from a dying city, entrusted to her by her "father" just before they had been separated, or so she claimed. So, sleepless, he sat and listened.

Meltzer. Mark Meltzer. The name had come up several times, and it was one that Jack was familiar with. He remembered the article from the paper. The man's little girl Cindy had gone missing, and his sanity seemed to have gone with her. But in light of these new tapes, it no longer appeared to be the case. No, Mark Meltzer had not slipped into a grief-spawned madness, but rather had stumbled upon an elusive trail leading to the secret of the century, a dark pit which Jack had thought he'd left behind years ago. Rapture.

Meltzer had paid the price for finding the twisted Atlantis, to be sure, but even though he was now entombed in a prison of steel and concrete deep beneath the waves, his knowledge, his research, was still out there, somewhere. Jack couldn't dismiss the thought from his mind. He had to know what else Meltzer had found out.

Sighing, the man rose to his feet and quickly changed his clothing. Sturdy boots, a long coat, and a battered fedora completed the ensemble. Jack stealthily crept downstairs, softly stepping past the bedroom doors behind which the girls had fallen asleep. A hastily-scrawled note was left on the counter for his daughters and his new charges. With a heavy sigh, he was off. There was work to be done.

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"Daddy, where are we going again?"

Delta's only answer was a single grunt. A burst of static then flooded over the radio before Tenenbaum's voice came in. Both Alice and Delta had tuned their in-suit radios to her frequency, along with the video cameras atop their helmets.

"Alice, can you hear me?"

"Y-yes. Where are you?"

The doctor sighed. "I am still at the ticket booth. The systems in your suit allow me to speak with you over far distances and see whatever you see."

"Oh," the girl answered quietly. "Okay."

She looked over at Delta, uncertain. He nodded in reassuring reply, placing a heavy, gloved hand on her shoulder as he did so. The doctor continued.

"I explained this to you before you left, child. You and Herr Delta are the two best fighters we have, and thus are the only ones with a hope of being able to free the last of the Little Ones. Are you sure you can do this? You can come back if you do not feel as such."

The girl shook her head. "No . . . no, I'm sure."

Delta gave an approving grunt before he returned his attention to the train's controls. The girl sighed, and quickly went about strapping on her needle and helmet. The train groaned as it came to an agonizingly slow stop. Finally, it lurched to a standstill, and the doors opened with a hiss.

A grisly scene met the eyes of the two armored figures in greeting.

Bodies, dozens of them, many of them decayed and bloated from Rapture's leaky, damp environment, were splayed wildly across the platform. Ancient bloodstains spattered the walls and floors in streaks of rusty dark reds and browns. Spent bullet casings littered the ground, but there were no weapons in sight, save for the crudest of improvised clubs and cudgels. The firearms of the dead had obviously been thoroughly scavenged or salvaged.

The girl almost retched inside her helmet. "What happened here?"

Tenenbaum's voice returned in a crackle of static. "You have entered Midtown Rapture. It was not as poor as the Drop, nor as rich as the Heights, but it was here that the Civil War came into full swing."

"This is . . . horrible," the former Big Sister whispered.

"This is Rapture," Tenenbaum retorted bitterly. "It is just one more reason why we must find a way to escape once the last of the girls have been freed. Now go. The last four Little Sisters are here somewhere. Free them. Once you have done so, we can then concentrate on getting out of here. Good luck."

With that, the radio fell silent. The two metal beasts of Rapture stepped out of the car, Alice following in Delta's wake. They carefully made their way across the platform without pause. The Big Daddy could see that the bodies had been picked and rifled clean. There was no sense in stopping for salvage when there was obviously none to be found.

Leaving the rotted battle field behind them, the pair reached the exit. The next room was no different. The door opened up into a large lobby, complete with desks, tables, chairs, and even a grand piano. Delta paused for a moment to idly tap a few of the ivory keys, the notes horribly out of tune. Two elevators at the rear of the room were flanked by a massive residents' directory. "Andromeda Apartments," an overhead sign proudly proclaimed. The decor was sadly overshadowed, however. Bodies swung from the rafters on rusty chains or were harpooned to the peeling walls. Trails of blood dripped and dribbled from the unfortunate victims, leaving streaks of red on the walls and pools of crimson on the wooden floorboards beneath them. Behind the front reception desk, a grim message had been scrawled in blood and entrails.

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Delta let out a contemptuous grunt; he wasn't impressed by the gory cliché. Gesturing for Alice to follow, he turned his back on the morbid tableau and walked through an airlock into a nearby bathysphere bay. The chamber seemed to have once served as the residence's garage. It was now filled with rusting personal bathyspheres, dead in the water, having long since been rendered impotent by time and lack of maintenance. The broken-down vehicles did not interest the hollow man. What did catch his attention were the nearby Gatherer's Garden and an accompanying Gene Bank.

Stepping up to the cheerfully obnoxious pink vending machine, the Big Daddy spent some of his newly-recovered ADAM on upgrading his own plasmids and tonics before he hazarded a glance back over his shoulder at Alice. Even with her face obscured by the helmet, he could feel her unease.

"Daddy, what are you doing?"

Delta gave a low grumble, staring intently at the girl. He knew what excessive splicing did to a person, and Big Sisters were a prime example of the consequences, psychotic as they were. The metal man did not want the girl to be any more unstable than she already was. That didn't mean he was against rearranging what she already had, however. Delta stepped over to the Gene Bank. Deciding it would be best to capitalize on her strengths, speed and stealth, he set to work.

SportBoost for speed and agility, an upgraded Armored Shell for additional protection, Natural Camouflage for stealth, and even a few drill augmentation tonics were selected in hopes that they would translate over to her needle. The Big Daddy carefully made his selection from the wide variety of genetic modifications he'd accumulated from the time he'd spent in Rapture. Satisfied with his choices, Delta stepped back and motioned for Alice to come forward. She tentatively walked up. Not wasting a moment, the Big Daddy firmly hooked her up to the machine and slammed the "Apply" button. The girl yelped and jumped back as the ADAM in her bloodstream was modified to match the tonics applied to her.

"Daddy! What was that for!" she cried, pained and shocked at the seeming betrayal.

Delta merely grunted and gestured for her to remain calm. Alice stood still, breathing hard, and then abruptly disappeared. The Big Daddy knew better though. He focused his vision on where she had been standing. A faintly shimmering outline of Alice's lithe form was still visible. He watched as the girl looked down to inspect herself. She then abruptly jumped in surprise, her visibility returning as she did so.

"What!" she exclaimed. "How did . . . did you . . . was it that?" she stammered, pointing at the Gene Bank mounted on the wall.

Delta merely nodded.

"Wow," she breathed. "What do we do now?"

Delta raised a hand and beckoned for her to follow. The Big Daddy lumbered back out into the lobby, studiously ignoring the cadaverous decor as he headed towards a small door off to the side. A tarnished brass plate above it was labeled "Security Office". A quick overview of the building's security camera feeds, assuming that they were still functional, would greatly facilitate their search. As he stood outside the splintered wooden door, he could hear the sounds of a deranged Splicer's conversation with himself, his voice constantly fluctuating in volume and tone as he gibbered and giggled. Hefting his drill, the Big Daddy growled and charged through the door as if it were paper. Alice followed in his wake, her needle raised and ready. The Splicer never stood a chance.

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It had been a fairly long drive. Meltzer's last known address was in Montauk, on the other side of Long Island. To get there, he had to drive through the Hamptons. Seeing the veritable castles the rich and famous of New York had built for themselves reminded Jack far too much of Andrew Ryan and the underwater spires of Rapture. _Andrew Ryan_. He would never be able to bring himself to call that man father. He gave a snorting, bitter half-laugh.

_I guess everyone in my house has "Daddy" issues_, he thought to himself as the old pickup sped down the road. Finally, he arrived.

The Meltzer vacation home was a modest beachfront cottage, two stories tall, with a wooden deck wrapping around its entirety and a gabled roof extending outwards on all sides. Jack parked his truck in the driveway, quietly closing the door behind him as he exited the vehicle. Carefully approaching the house, he took a moment to adjust his fedora. The deck creaked slightly in the still night air as his booted feet slowly made their way across the planking.

A small mountain of mail and newspapers sat by the front door as Jack took a moment to briskly sift through it, stuffing every letter and correspondence within the pile into a sack he'd brought. Opting to inspect them later, he continued on. The summer night was silent save for the gentle lapping of waves and chirping crickets.

The back entrance consisted of a pair of French doors. The former Rapturian wasted no time in smashing out a pane of glass with a strike of his elbow. Reaching inside the newly-formed hole, Jack quickly unlocked the door and swung it open. He stepped inside, glass crunching beneath his boots. The interior had a sense of the surreal.

What should have been a quaint little beach cottage filled him with a sense of unease. He crept past the kitchen. A teapot was sitting at the ready on the stove, as if Mark Meltzer would suddenly return and have need of it. A small television sat on a stand near an old couch and a comfy-looking armchair. A quick peek behind a closed door revealed a fully stocked bathroom. Jack moved on. The stairs groaned slightly under his weight as he ascended. The door to the master bedroom was ajar, revealing a king sized bed, its covers ruffled on one side only though, indication of a single occupant. A quick search of the bedroom's furnishings yielded nothing.

The second room felt almost like a shrine. Children's toys were neatly arranged, along with a small bed made up with pink satin sheets and left in pristine condition. It was undoubtedly Cindy's room, painstakingly preserved, both as a remembrance and as a sign of stubborn confidence in her eventual return. He quietly left the room untouched, feeling a peculiar sense of reverence as he stepped back out into the hallway.

One last door remained at the end of the hallway. He approached it slowly, the floor creaking with every step. Pale moonlight filtered through windows and illuminated the hallway. Jack halted before the plain wooden door, almost afraid of what lurked behind it. Steeling himself, he took hold of the knob and pushed, sighing in frustration as he did so. Someone had beaten him here.

The study was a mess, papers scattered about, file cabinet overturned. Every drawer on the mahogany desk was thrown open, their contents askew.

"Shit," Jack muttered, stepping into the room and taking in the scene of devastation with a measuring glance. "Might as well start looking."

Returning the file cabinet to its original position, he looked through its contents. Out of the five drawers, two of them had been ransacked and emptied, their identifying labels defaced into the bargain. The other three seemed to be intact. The first two bore names. Roscoe Inman and Celeste Roget. A handful of folders and papers remained in each one. Working quickly, Jack emptied each category into a plain folder, labeled them, and then tucked them into his sack. The final drawer was what he had, in the end, come for.

"Disappearances".

The drawer had been left untouched. Its contents overflowed with papers and folders sticking out at odd angles. There were dozens of files contained within individually labeled and dated folders, with accompanying pictures and newspaper articles attached by paper clips.

He smiled. "Jackpot."

The newfound files were given the same treatment as their predecessors and were promptly shoved into the bag. Every last scrap of paper and note on the floor found its way into the sack. Jack then turned his attention to the desk and all of its contents. What few documents remained in or on it went into the bag as well. He didn't have time to be precise. He'd grab as much as possible now and then safely sift through the evidence later.

With the desk cleared, he finally turned his attention to the wall above. A map of the world had been pinned up, with notes scribbled on its surface and bits of articles and photos clipped onto specific locations. Reaching into his coat, Jack produced a small Polaroid camera and quickly took a few shots of Meltzer's work. Before he could develop and check his photos, however, he heard a noise coming from below. There was a low creaking and groaning; the traitorous floorboards revealed the presence of another. He was out of time. Stuffing the camera and photos back into his coat, he hurriedly and unceremoniously tore down the map as he stuffed it into the bag and tied off the top. The sack was flung over one shoulder as he shut the door of the study, grabbing Meltzer's old chair and jamming it under the knob to stop anyone from entering. The bullets then started to fly.

Time spent in Rapture gave a practical education, if one survived it. Jack knew the sound of a low-caliber handgun when he heard it. The lead slugs slammed into the solidly built door, but did not pierce the thick hardwood. Jack looked about wildly for an escape and found it in the form of a large window. Throwing it open, Jack tightly gripped his bag of evidence as he leaped through. He found himself standing atop the roof of the patio deck. A loud pounding could be heard upon the study door within; the chair wouldn't hold for long. The patio roof overlooked the street and the driveway as well. As such, Jack found himself just a few feet away from his old pickup. Without a second thought, he took a running jump and threw himself into the bed of his truck.

There was a mighty crash upon impact; the suspension rattled, but Jack quickly recovered. He vaulted over the side of truck bed and landed feet-first onto the pavement. Without any hesitation, he threw open the door of the cab, tossed the bag onto the passenger seat, jumped inside, and then fired up the engine. Jack threw the gearstick into reverse and floored the pedal. The truck lurched backwards and then spun in a wild turn as he jerked at the wheel. The mailbox of Meltzer's former neighbor never stood a chance as it collided with the truck's rear bumper. The old pickup's rear wheels spun wildly and then the truck rocketed forward, leaving behind a spray of pebbles and sand. Jack shot down the road like a bat out of hell. He didn't dare to look back.

oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo

By the time he managed to break down the door, the old pickup was hurtling down the road. He noticed the open window, mildly irritated as he watched the truck disappear behind a bend in the road. He'd forgotten that Meltzer had a window in his study. The room had been thoroughly stripped of any remaining papers and documents. He wasn't worried, however. He would be seeing Jack Ryan and his gaggle of girls soon enough.

**End Chapter. Please, please, please keep up the reviews. Also, this chapter used material from the "Something in the Sea" promotional campaign for BioShock 2. Now, I never actually participated in it, and the information I am using comes from the BioShock wiki. Feel free to call me on any details I got wrong. As always, thanks to my beta Markal and reviewer WhoIsAtlas. Until next time folks, jschneids signing off.**


	13. A Tangled Web

**Disclaimer: I don't own the BioShock franchise, blah, blah, blah, don't sue me, blah, blah, enjoy, blah.**

The rotted wooden door shattered into a spray of splinters as a whirling drill rammed through. Splinters and shards of damp, moldering wood flew away from the site of the impact as Subject Delta's armored shoulder followed in its wake. A few lonely chunks of decayed timber remained, gently swinging on tarnished brass hinges as the Big Daddy stomped through the blasted doorway. The startled Splicer that inhabited the small cubicle spun round to face his assailant. A claw-like hand drew out a pistol as the deformed man stared up at him, one eye permanently sealed shut by swollen, cancerous flesh. Before a shot could be fired, a lithe, metal-clad figure cart-wheeled out from behind Delta and kicked out viciously. The blow sent the gun flying from the Splicer's hand as Alice lunged in for the kill.

The needle glinted in the dim light, a silver blur as it plunged through the monster's heart, the weapon piercing clear through to his back as its tip emerged with a splash of crimson. With a sputtering cough and a dribbling trail of blood issuing from the corner of his mouth, the Splicer gurgled sickeningly and went limp, held upright only by the needle that had impaled him. Alice then calmly withdrew the weapon, sounding off a loud moist pop and leaving a smattering of gore as the Splicer's body thudded to the floorboards. The Big Daddy gave the former Big Sister an approving nod as he retrieved a few dollars and a bottle of Tate Merlot off the fresh carcass. He then turned to the bank of monitors that formed the far wall of the cramped space.

The security office of the Andromeda Apartments complex had a cluster of television sets that were designated for camera feeds from each floor, but not all of them were functioning. The bottom row of video displays that were labeled with a brass numerical "1" was blank. That was understandable, considering that the building's lobby and all of its surrounding environs had been ravaged by Rapture's Civil War, but the top two banks of screens, "14" and "15", were suspiciously inactive as well. The metal man gave a pondering rumble at the current situation as Alice met his gaze.

"Maybe they're just broken," she suggested cheerily.

Delta merely grunted in reply and returned his attention to the electronics. Something about the security displays for the fourteenth and fifteenth floors was . . . _off_, for lack of a better word. Leaning over to inspect the rear of the monitor banks, he found his answer. The backside of the security monitors was a dusty mess of clustered wires, but it was clear that the cabling been tampered with in one way or another.

The monitors' corresponding feed wires for the first thirteen floors had been rerouted, feeding through their respective alarm boxes in a single encompassing electrical circuit before they all snaked downwards through a suspicious-looking crack in a nearby corner. Somebody or something had hijacked the entire security system and subverted it to his . . . her . . . or its . . . own surveillance needs. As for the monitors corresponding to the fourteenth and fifteenth floors, all of their input wires had been cut or stripped away. He beckoned for Alice to look.

"Oh," she exclaimed in realization. "Somebody doesn't want us to see those floors. But . . . why?"

Delta answered with a shrug and a grunt before he lowered himself on his hands and knees to give the suspicious-looking crack a closer look. Worming a gloved hand into the opening, he easily pulled away a chunk of moldy plaster, inadvertently doubling the size of the crude opening. He could barely make out the outlines of a vacant space on the other side.

Getting to his feet, he slowly slid his left hand up the wall and brought his fingers up to eye level. He then abruptly pulled back his arm and rammed his gloved fist into the plaster with full force. Stucco and drywall crumbled instantly, throwing out a plume of dust that stuck to the peeling, faded wallpaper. Delta's arm sank in up to the elbow before he yanked it back out and pressed his porthole up against the newly-formed opening, the glow from his glassy viewport illuminating his vision.

Beyond the thin, crumbling drywall and its crisscrossing support girders was a dank rectangular space that stretched upwards into the darkness. The Big Daddy realized with a start that it was an elevator shaft. He then glanced downwards and noticed a tangled mess of twisted metal, frayed cables, and fetid rust-colored water resting at the bottom; the remains of the elevator car and its last occupants. The rerouted security wiring snaked and spiraled up the elevator shaft, wrapping around and through the metal framework as it disappeared into the gloom. The Big Daddy grunted again as he stepped back from the hole and looked over to Alice.

"So where does it go?"

His only answer was to point a finger up at the ceiling before he returned his attention to the bank of security monitors. They would definitely be making a stop at the uppermost levels to figure out what was going on, but it wouldn't hurt to check and see if there was anything else worth investigating in the building's other floors along the way. A flicker of motion on one of the security screens for the third floor caught his eye. It was the unmistakable lumbering gait of a Bouncer Big Daddy. His Little Sister was happily skipping and hopping along in front of him.

Delta and Alice now had their work cut out for them, and judging by the state of the elevator, it was going to involve the stairs. The prototype Big Daddy grumbled. He hated stairs.

oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooo

Jack pulled into his driveway as quietly as possible as he locked the truck in the garage and dragged all the acquired evidence into the living room. He then collapsed into his waiting armchair, heaving a mighty sigh as he did so. He had done it, but his unknown assailant at Meltzer's former place of residence unnerved him all the same. Two possibilities presented themselves. Either his attacker knew of Meltzer's investigative research and had come looking for it as well, or worse, they knew of Jack's identity and had followed in his tracks to stage an ambush. Neither possibility was good, but the prospect of the latter was downright catastrophic. If they knew of his identity and of his movements, then there was no telling what else they might know . . . how much of_ Rapture_ they might know.

He quickly brushed those thoughts aside and returned his attention to the sack of papers and files he had retrieved from Meltzer's home. Some of the papers were dossiers; files on each and every one of the little girls that had been kidnapped from all about the coastlines of the Atlantic Ocean. Ireland, France, Spain, and American states up and down along the East Coast . . . the former homes of the abducted girls were numerous and spread out. Jack sighed. He was currently harboring ten of them in his home, little girls whose names and places of home were unknown to him. They themselves might not even remember their real names, he realized with a heavy sigh. Deciding to put aside the task of recovering identities until tomorrow, he grabbed up the sack and headed for the basement.

Wooden steps creaked beneath his feet as Jack descended, a single bare light bulb hanging from its wire as it illuminated the passage. He paused for a moment at the bottom of the steps, placing the bag gingerly on the floor before he cracked his vertebrae back into place.

_I'm getting too old for this_, he mused. _Then again, I'm not even technically a teenager_.

He silently cursed Dr. Suchong for having played God, and then cursed Fontaine and Andrew Ryan for their manipulative war games. Shaking his head, he picked up the sack and continued on.

Tucked off in a basement corner was a stack of cardboard boxes. The man carefully shifted them to the side, revealing a loose piece of paneling. He then reached inside, undid an unseen lock, and a hidden door swung open, letting the man step through with his bag in tow. He had stumbled upon the concealed space a few months after he'd first moved in with the girls. Older neighbors claimed that Jack's home had once housed an illegal moonshine operation during Prohibition. The secret room had served him as well as it had the old bootleggers.

Sitting behind a rusty old still was a stack of safes and lockboxes containing a veritable treasure trove of souvenirs taken from Rapture. He had already tucked away Eleanor's Big Sister suit, along with everything else they'd taken from her submersible, next to all of the things he himself had brought back from the underwater dystopia so many years before. He placed his bag of evidence atop one of the lockboxes. It would be safe here, for now.

Exiting the space as quietly as he had entered it, he locked the door behind him and replaced the boxes before heading back upstairs. It had been a long night, and it was now time for some well-deserved rest. Anyone who had been following him wouldn't make a move tonight, not after revealing themselves at Meltzer's. Nevertheless, he took a moment to activate his home security system, which comprised several miniaturized Rapture-inspired security devices, and brought his pistol with him to bed. After all, better safe than sorry.

oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooo

The unfortunate Bouncer never really stood a chance. Delta and Alice emerged from the stairwell, the metal man grumbling slightly over a few rotted steps that had broken under his weight, and promptly tracked the Bouncer down. The drill-toting behemoth appeared to have cleared the third floor of any offending Splicers before their arrival, so the two swiftly set to work without much difficulty. A freezing blast from Delta's hand encased the monster in a chilling coat of ice, leaving it vulnerable to all the punishment Delta and the former Big Sister could dish out. Armor-piercing rounds slammed into the frozen Big Daddy, and while Delta had to pause to reload his rotary machine gun, Alice launched a trio of crackling fireballs at the unlucky Rapturian golem. Its prison of ice having been melted away, the Bouncer drunkenly stumbled about for a moment, just long enough for Delta to charge in with his drill and finish the creature off. It gave a last, mournful groan and then collapsed, its Little Sister breaking down into tears as it moved no more.

With the calm of practiced ease, Delta stepped forward, hoisting the ragged child up with one arm. Her screams of grief soon turned to squeals of delight as the Big Daddy placed his palm to her forehead. A bright flash blinded everyone within the confines of the hallway. Blinking her eyes beneath her helmet, Alice watched in awe as the little girl hopped down from Delta's embrace, her hands clasped together in silent thanks before she scampered into a nearby vent. Alice was stunned and silent for a long moment before she finally turned to Delta.

"Were they all like that?" she meekly questioned.

The Big Daddy nodded solemnly as he bent over the Bouncer's remains, salvaging whatever money and fuel for his drill he could find.

"What about me?"

Delta said nothing for a long moment. He then sighed, shaking his head for silence before he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and turned towards the stairs. Alice shrugged his hand off.

"Fine," she said, slightly bitter, "we'll keep going. But I want to know, Daddy . . ."

Her voice raised in pleading inquiry, Delta couldn't help but fulfill her request, albeit at a later time, he promised himsefl. He slowly nodded once as he then turned back to the stairwell.

ooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooo

After what seemed like an eternity for the lumbering Big Daddy, the pair arrived at the top of the staircase. A tarnished metal door labeled "14" in brass numerals stood before them, the only path forwards, as the rest of the ascending stairway had almost completely fallen away, leaving a gaping breach in their intended upward path. Delta growled in disgust as he pondered over the situation. Alice's Big Sister agility and acrobatics would allow her to continue upwards, but there was no conceivable way for even the comparably light, as far as Big Daddy's came, Alpha series to mimic her gymnastic feats. Grumbling at this development, he gestured for Alice to follow and headed for the door. The metal portal swung open with a groan, and Delta stepped through, Alice following after. The Big Daddy's eyes widened beneath his helmet at what lay in wait.

No less than _four_ rocket turrets sat at the end of the hallway that stretched in front of them. In an instant all four of the security emplacements whirred to life and trained their launchers in his direction. The Big Daddy wasted no time as he turned around, grabbed up Alice in his arms, and charged straight through the door of the nearest apartment, the hiss of rockets following in his wake. The wooden entryway broke to splinters as the Big Daddy met it with his shoulder, his momentum carrying him and Alice into the apartment just as explosions wracked the now-empty space behind them. Getting to his feet, Delta quickly scanned the room they found themselves in, only turning his attention back out to the hallway upon concluding that it was currently safe. Peering out the hole where the apartment door used to be, he noticed the spot where the rockets had done their handiwork. The entire area near the entrance to the stairwell was blackened and charred, the wall still smoking and now beginning to fall to ashy pieces. The metal door they had come through was nowhere to be seen, blasted off its hinges by the explosion. Sighing, he turned to examine the apartment they were now in. One rocket turret was fairly manageable. Two or three at a time could be tolerably handled under favorable conditions. But to take on four of them in a wide open straightaway with little chance or opportunity for taking coverwas suicide. There was no chance. He would need to find another way through.

The Big Daddy helped Alice to her feet before he gave the apartment a closer examination. It was rotting and molding. Its windows to Rapture's undersea cityscape were leaking. The walls were peeling and crumbling, and almost all of the overhead lights had burned out. Delta grunted. If he could get closer, it would be a simple matter to launch a grenade or a rocket at the defensive emplacements. As his gaze fell on the rotting walls, a grin played across his hidden face.

The wall nearly disintegrated under Delta's drill as the weapon whirled around, throwing up a cloud of thick dust tinged white with plaster. He could feel the weapon burst through to the other side as resistance gave way. He quickly stopped his drilling, letting the dust settle as he lowered the drill. A hole giving access to an adjacent apartment soon revealed itself, and the Big Daddy quickly widened it with a few swipes of the drill, until he could comfortably squeeze through. He found himself in the wreckage of a bathroom. A decayed, unidentifiable corpse sat in a nearby bathtub, fetid water reaching up to its drawn-up knees. Undeterred, he beckoned for Alice to follow and stepped into the next room of the apartment. The process was quickly repeated. Having reached his intended position, Delta pulled out his launcher and carefully advanced to the third apartment's front door, ready to take a quick shot.

With a roar, the Big Daddy kicked the door down and swung the launcher over to aim at the offending group of turrets. He fired a clutch of grenades into their midst and dove back into the apartment. Grunting in some bemusement at the unexpectedly violent explosion that had followed, he got to his feet and stepped outside, Alice following after him. A single turret was still standing, a few yards away. It let loose one final shot. Before Delta could even move, Alice leaped in front of the approaching projectile, seized it in a telekinetic grip, and sent it hurtling back to its source. The turret went up in flames. Delta gave Alice an approving nod before continuing onwards.

As they turned a corner and stepped into another hallway, Delta noticed familiar-looking wires and cables, akin to the ones he had found in the security cubicle, snaking out of holes and cracks in the floor as they ran along the side of the hallway. More and more wires soon joined them from every shadowy crack and corner; individual loose strands building into a thick, twisted bundle of cables. Intrigued, he followed them, tracing their path along the wall. Abruptly, the bundle disappeared into a hole nestled alongside a nearby apartment door. Cracks of light could be seen trickling outwards from its edges, along with the noise of angry conversation. Delta stepped back and gave the door a thorough once-over. Compared to the rest of the building, it appeared to be in fine condition, solidly built and painstakingly kept clean of decay and moisture rot, but it was not the door's condition that attracted Delta's attention. Rather, it was the nameplate upon it. The scratched brass plaque read:

"1432-Parson Residence"

**End Chapter. Please keep up the reviews and feedback, I love hearing from you guys. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and to my awesome beta reader, the mighty Markal. jschneids, signing off.**


	14. Mirrors

**Disclaimer: I don't own BioShock (well I own copies of the games, but you know what I mean). Whew, sorry this took so long, but I've been on vacation for a bit, and found it hard to drag myself to the computer. As always, thanks to my excellent beta reader Markal. Anywho, lets continue on with the story, shall we?**

Delta approached the door with slow, deliberate steps. Alice cautiously followed in his wake. The voices were growing louder. Their ears could just barely make out a muffled, masculine voice with gruff irate tones. Then a siren started wailing. As he wildly looked about for its source, the Big Daddy spotted a small cluster of wires and telescopic lenses mounted atop the doorframe. A makeshift security camera, if the maddening, blaring alarm was of any indication. Growling, he wasted no time in pulling out his shotgun with one hand and throwing his shoulder to the door. The paneled door seemed to bend and buckle slightly before it gave way and swung inwards with a resounding thud. As he quickly straightened from his headlong charge, Delta turned and raised his gun, only to find himself aiming it at . . . people.

Human beings, not deformed, grotesque Splicers, turned and stared at him in shock. Time seemed to freeze. There were two teenage boys, a middle-aged man and woman, and a young woman who looked barely out of her teens. None of them were carrying any hint of ADAM abuse in their features. No drooping, contorted cheek muscles, no cancerous sores, no tacky party masks to conceal their grotesque faces. There were only creased facial lines that conveyed confusion, shock, terror, and rage.

The two teenagers were the first to react. Both of them dove and rolled out of the way as they scrambled to find cover behind nearby pieces of furniture. The middle-aged man was next. His eyes wide, he took hold of the hands of the two women and yanked them out of sight behind a doorframe. In a heartbeat, a trio of gun barrels was aimed at him. Two were peeking out over the top of a nearby sofa, and the other was squarely aimed at him from the doorway through which the middle-aged man had retreated. Before Delta could react, Alice let out an ear-splitting screech and prepared to launch herself into the room. The Big Daddy had other plans though. He quickly grabbed hold of her upraised needle and forced it back down, shaking his head at her in silent admonishment. Metal helmets and glassy portholes made for poor conduits of emotion, but the Big Daddy could read the confusion in Alice's hunched shoulders. Gesturing for her to be still, Delta holstered his own weapon and slowly stepped forward with raised, open hands.

Every step he now took was slow and deliberate, yet they still boomed like bass drums as they fell. The stained floorboards creaked beneath him. He had the advantage here, he knew it, and he was certain they knew it as well. Small-arms fire would hardly put a dent in him, and in Rapturian close-quarters combat, he and Alice in full Big Sister regalia were near without match. Those were facts; facts burned into his mind by experience and the inhuman mental conditioning of Fontaine's labs. Instinct cried out for their blood, a subconscious twitch of his trigger finger attesting to that. But somewhere, deep within his chest, he felt a slight twinge in his heart, or whatever mechanical widget Yi Suchong and Gil Alexander had replaced it with. These were people, not Splicers, not mad dogs in need of being put down, but one of what was surely Rapture's last pockets of humanity. This time, at least, the guns would not speak for him first.

Every booted step sounded out as they made their steady tread, the wooden floor quaking and groaning beneath him as he approached with open gauntlets raised. He slowly stepped out into the middle of the room before he came to a halt. Silence reigned for a long moment, punctuated by intervals of heavy breathing. Finally, a gruff, grizzled voice reached his ears.

"Turn around, real slow-like. I know you can understand me."

With the most deliberate of motions, the Big Daddy turned in the direction of the doorway and came face-to-face with a craggy, wrinkled countenance.

The metal man noted the speaker's still-robust frame, which spoke of a man who had barely turned fifty, but the weathered lines and scars on his face spoke volumes; Rapture's trials and tribulations had aged this fellow beyond his years. The odd-looking handgun in his hands was hardly recognizable at first glance. What looked like the remains of a tin can had been slapped onto the side of the weapon's ammunition chamber. Gears and bullets were visible through the gaps. A small heating element was affixed to the bottom of the barrel with a tube that fed into the muzzle. It gave off a cherry-colored glow in the dim lighting of the apartment. Even a small telescopic lens had been attached to the top of the weapon for precise aiming. Time spent in Rapture always seemed to breed ingenuity in its survivors.

What hair he had left was a thinning crop of salt and pepper. A thick moustache rested atop his upper lip, constantly twitching as though it was some small, nervous animal. His simple, homespun clothes were patched here and there in various places, but otherwise showed every indication of having been well-kept. Above all, however, it was his eyes that commanded Delta's attention. Two steely, icy-blue orbs stared into the glowing porthole for a long moment before they darted over the rest of the Big Daddy's armored figure in an unflattering scrutiny. His gaze paused momentarily as it fell on one of Delta's metal-clad gauntlets. The Big Daddy's mind immediately turned to his hands, wondering as to what on them could possibly cause the man to stare. Then, a moment later, he remembered the insignia on his palms, the Greek letter that was his namesake.

"So, you're that 'Subject Delta' Lamb has been blabbering about over the intercoms, eh? You have to be more than just some rogue Daddy to have her all up in arms like that."

Before Delta could respond, over the radio came the crackle of static that he had come to associate with Tenenbaum's interjections. He gave a slight sigh; he hated serving as a glorified telephone.

"Carnegie? _Michael_ Carnegie? Is that you, my old friend?"

Delta watched as the man's stony visage seemed to crumble in disbelief, his jaw dropping slack and loose for a moment before he recovered and reassumed his previous cold glare.

"Doc? Doctor _Tenenbaum_? How in the . . . Are you behind all of this?"

An audible sigh came over the radio as the doctor began to explain.

"No, my friend, how we came to this point is a long and twisted tale, but know this, Herr Delta, the man before you, and his companion can both be trusted. Sofia Lamb is dead, and we are working to leave this hell. Please, help us. You can join in our escape."

Carnegie flicked his eyes between Delta and the spindly form of Alice standing some distance away. His hands tightened their grip on the gun.

"Doc, you were a good friend before the whole city went to hell. I trusted you. Hell, I still trust you. But right now I've got a Big Daddy and a Big Sister standing in my living room. You're really pushing it, Doc."

The doctor's voice sighed before continuing.

"Michael, standing before you is a _man_. Behind him is a _young girl_. Both of them have been greatly wronged by this city, but that is the extent of what they are. I assure you, they are in complete control of themselves."

". . . that's what worries me."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Then from behind Delta came the sound of shuffling footsteps. Turning around, the Big Daddy cringed when he saw its source to be Alice. The Big Sister slowly stepped into the center of the room and stopped next to Delta, meeting his gaze for a moment before she turned to face Carnegie. Every eye in the apartment was now glued to her. The Big Daddy gave Alice a low, rumbling groan in warning, though all it elicited was a renewal of nervous glances in his direction. Delta gritted his teeth; Alice was a wild card.

The Big Sister stepped in between the Big Daddy and the pointed barrel of Carnegie's gun with careful, deliberate steps and paused just outside of arm's reach, or needle's reach, rather, and stared into the mustachioed man's eyes. Carnegie merely turned up the dial on the handgun's heating element and icily returned her gaze without a word. Finally, Alice took hold of the latches on her helmet, and with a hiss of released air, lifted the metal sphere from off her shoulders. The helmet fell away with a thump as it crashed and rolled across the floorboards. Alice brushed a stray lock of brown hair out of her eyes as she looked up at Carnegie.

The Big Daddy watched as Carnegie's cold gaze softened fractionally. His grip on the gun began to quiver.

"Please," Alice softly pleaded.

Carnegie's eyes wildly flitted back and forth between the two. Then his lips burst open into a snarl. He grumbled and exhaled loudly as he shook his head.

"Fine. I still don't trust either of you as far as I can throw you, but I guess I can trust the Doc."

With that, he finally lowered his handgun. The two teenage boys warily crept out from cover and circled around to join the man. The Big Daddy noted that their weapons had been heavily modified as well. The other two occupants poked their heads out from the doorway. Five pairs of untrusting eyes cautiously watched him as he lowered his hands. Alice immediately took hold of one, tightly wrapping her hand around a few of his massive fingers, as much as her smaller hand could manage to grasp. For an eternal second they stood there facing each other, a duo of Rapture's monsters and a quintet of her survivors; wordlessly staring, thinking, and analyzing this new threat that they faced. Finally, the doctor's voice broke the silence.

"_Danke schoen_, Michael. Thank you. I suppose explanations are in order now."

"Yah, that would be nice Doc."

His bitter sarcasm was palpable. Tenenbaum sighed.

"I have developed a way to heal the Little Sisters, to free them from the slugs inside their bodies. Herr Delta and Alice have been tracking down the last of Lamb's Little Sisters to save them. The remaining little ones are somewhere here in Midtown. With them freed, we can then take a bathysphere to the surface with no one and nothing to hold us back from leaving. Sofia Lamb, as you might have suspected from the recent lack of her ideological propaganda, is already dead."

The words were spoken with finality, a grim determination that Delta had not seen before in the seemingly frail woman.

Carnegie, to the Big Daddy's mild surprise, seemed to be impressed. Slightly impressed.

"Midtown's a big place, Doc. Now you all got lucky finding that one down on the lower floors. Finding any more is going to be the proverbial needle in the haystack. This is the one place in Rapture Lamb could never fully get her Commie fingers into. Hell, even during the War, neither side ever really managed to control it. It's just too damn big, and too damn full with crazed Splicers. But those psychos always need their ADAM, and so they always come crawling back here. It's a corpse factory, and there's always another water-bloated, ADAM soaked body waiting around the corner."

"And yet still you remain here," Tenenbaum retorted sharply. "After all these years you have remained here, carving out your own corner within this hell. You know this place better than any in Rapture. Help us find these Sisters, and we shall help you."

There was a slight twitch in the man's haggard features.

"Maybe I know where should look for em', maybe I don't. Either way, I'm not saying until I know I can trust you two . . . _things_."

He spat the last word, and Delta could feel Alice's grip on his fingers tighten. Her breath began to quicken as she started to raise her other arm. The girl may have possessed the naïveté of an innocent preschooler, but she understood insults, and had a temper that was nothing to joke about. With a low rumble, he forced her hand back down to her side before he returned Carnegie's cold stare with a blank, silent gaze.

Carnegie snorted.

"And here I was thinking she was the one keeping _you_ on a leash. Regardless, if we're going to be working together, you're going to have to earn my trust. Both of you are going to have to prove to me that the pair of you are more than just some dumb animals in diving suits."

Delta could feel Alice's rage welling up, and he tightened his grip.

"You scratch our backs, we'll scratch yours. You need to find those Little Sisters; we need to find some more supplies. You two help me on a supply run tomorrow, and maybe we can work together further. Do we have a deal?"

Tenenbaum clearly voiced her affirmation, and Delta gave a slow nod to accompany it. Alice merely glared hatefully at the mustachioed man. Carnegie exhaled sharply.

"Fine. In any case, I think everyone could use some sleep right about now." He checked a tarnished wristwatch before continuing. "Meet us back here in nine hours. You can take your pick of the other apartments. Now go."

No one else voiced their opinion on the matter; Carnegie was clearly the group leader. With a rough grunt, Delta scooped up Alice's helmet with one hand and half-dragged the fuming former Big Sister out of the apartment with the other, leaving the Parson residence and its occupants behind him. The names and faces of the apartment's residents nagged at his mind, invoking memories of ID photographs imprinted on Accu-Vox recordings he had found on his previous jaunt through Rapture. His curiosity would have to wait though. A few stomps down the hall brought them to a relatively untouched apartment; the gaunt, shriveled body of its former occupant lying on the carpet just needed to be tossed into the hallway.

Once within, Delta released his hold on Alice, who promptly stormed over to a nearby window.

"It's not fair," she murmured as her reflection stared back at her with its ghostly, pale flesh and tangled hair. "Why do we have to be like . . . _this_? Why did they make us like this? Change me, change you?"

She turned around to face him, tears trailing down her face.

"Daddy," she said, voice beginning to falter, "I . . . I don't understand. Why am I such a . . . a _monster_!"

She screamed in frustration and began to pace violently as a nearby lamp flew off its nightstand and shattered against the wall in telekinetic rage.

"I can remember it all now. Every doctor . . . every cut . . . every single needle. Every one. Why did they do it to me? _Why?_"

She whirled to face Delta again, desperate for an answer, only to meet his silent gaze.

"What?" she screamed at him accusingly.

Calmly, he pointed one massive gloved finger at her hands. A quick downwards glance revealed small flames playing across their surface.

"Oh," she muttered softly. Tears began brimming in her eyes, and the Big Daddy stepped forward in anticipation of what would happen next. A moment later she was in his arms, heaving with sobs.

"I just want it to stop, Daddy. Why won't it stop?"

Her words were broken by sobs muffled in Delta's shoulder, but he understood her. He stood there holding her, hearing her words, feeling and sharing her anger and grief, and cursing Rapture and those who had stolen his voice. For it was at times like this that he wished the most that he still had it.

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Delta quietly sat on the mildewed sofa, nearly crushed beneath his weight. Alice had long since drifted off to sleep in one of the bedrooms, its mattress luckily devoid of bloodstains and seawater. He sat in silent vigil. Sleep would not come to him.

A sudden twinge of pain solicited a low groan from the metal man. With shaky hands he retrieved the hypo filled with the genetic stopgap Tenenbaum had given to him and plunged the needle into his suit's IV port, sending the pink slime rushing into his veins. The soothing cool flowed through him. Delta sighed heavily. He couldn't keep this up; without Eleanor, he was still living on borrowed time. So he sat there, his mind tackling a million different questions, his heart split between the daughter he so desperately needed to survive and the family he now seemed to be gathering beneath the waves. He grunted.

Of course, it always lingered in the back of his mind. A festering little worm of doubt that crawled within his skull, threatening to eat away at all he believed in. Did Eleanor truly love him, and he her, or was it just the conditioning? Was he truly her guardian, a beloved protector, or was he just merely a tool to her, to Tenenbaum, to everyone? What was he, truly? Man or monster? Saint or sinner?

He got to his feet and faced his blurred reflection in the window. It was a terrifying visage of metal, tubes, and glass. A featureless porthole for a face. He trembled, ever so slightly. Who was he beneath the suit? With shaky steps, he shuffled into the bathroom, his massive frame nearly filling the small space. Flickering lights illuminated the tiled space. Laying his hands on the porcelain sink, he confronted the grimy mirror that hung above it, a clear reflection still visible in its center. With shaking hands, he reached for the latches that held his helmet in place. Thick fingers fumbled on the clamps. He paused. For a moment, memories of the last time he had removed his helmet surfaced. Eleanor's screams, Lamb's calm, condescending voice, and a Luger to his temple. _No_, he thought, violently shoving the images from his mind, _not this time._ There was a hiss as the pressurized helmet released, his porthole fogging up with rushing air. Carefully, he removed the armored headgear, raising it over his head slowly, only to drop it to the floor with a clatter in horror.

A sickening vision stared back from the mirror before him. Pale, necrotic flesh hung to a skeletally gaunt face, any traces of hair long since gone. His nose was reduced to barely more than a raised bump on his face, mounted by two thin slits. Thin, cracked, colorless lips slid over stained teeth, tongue lolling about uselessly in the back of his mouth. Tubes of all shapes and purposes directly flowed into his neck from the improvised collar and shoulder pieces of his armor; masses of scar tissue surrounded their points of entry. Then there were his eyes, two orbs in deep sunken sockets; a thin ring of green around wide pupils.

Delta's breathing quickened, his pale jaw clenching reflexively. He raised his hands before his eyes, touching his face in disbelief, only to feel the cool metal of his gloves against his bare flesh. Disbelief, horror, revulsion; all welled up within him as he stepped back and nearly tripped over the bathtub.

_No_, he thought. _No, no, no, no!_ With a bellowing roar he slammed his fist into the glass, shattering what was left of the mirror into countless pieces. A booted kick delivered a similar fate to the bathtub, followed by the sink, then the commode, and finally the walls of the room, tile and rotten wooden sundered by his blows. Arms upraised, he let loose an unearthly, mournful cry, tinted with fury, as he vented his monstrous rage upon the tiled cubicle. For a monster he truly was.

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Across the sea, in a cozy townhouse, and bedded down with blankets and pillows on the couch, Eleanor Lamb awoke in a cold sweat, gasping. Her heart pounded and a sense of dread grew in the pit of her stomach.

"Father," she whispered softly, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them tight as a tear trickled down her face, "where are you?"

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Shutting the door quietly behind him, the shadowy figure of a man entered the fetid apartment, stains stinking of God-only-knew-what streaking the walls. Dim lights illuminated ragged furniture and an obsolete black-and-white television. A tawny mouse squeaked with fright and scampered back to the safety of its hole. With an idle toss, a battered hat landed on the cracked Formica counter as he walked past the sorry excuse for a kitchen and down towards the bedroom, stopping only at a dirty window to ensure that the blinds were fully drawn, blocking off all sight of New York City's alleyways below. With a creak of rusty hinges he entered his inner sanctuary, a bare mattress on a rusted frame sitting off in a corner. What fully commanded his attention were the walls.

Clippings from newspapers, faded photos, reports and files from the study of one Mark Meltzer, and bits of paper with notes hastily scrawled upon them were all pinned to the peeling wallpaper, a tangled mess of colored strings running from one piece of the puzzle to the next. At the center of it all was a great blank space, devoid of all but a bloody red question mark. Crowded, random words ran in circles around it.

"Nothing but a minor setback tonight, that's all," he muttered to himself, eyes flitting across the wall.

"Jack Ryan and his gaggle of girls will have their roles to play in good time," he rambled on, his gaze finally settling on a discreetly taken photo of the man, pictures of his daughters arranged around it. The plotter broke into a smile, chuckling.

"The wheels are in motion now, nothing can stop it. It'll be mine," he ranted on, his speech punctuated by bouts of mad laughter. "It'll all be mine, the power, the knowledge. . . of Utopia. _Raptur_e_!_"

**End Chapter. Please review. Feedback gives motivation to write. Thanks.**


	15. Daybreak

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own ideas and characters. The BioShock franchise is owned by 2K, but you guys all knew that already, right? First of all, let me apologize for the growing gaps between updates. things have just been a bit busy here on this end. Thanks to all my reviewers, anonymous and named alike, you guys are awesome, and help motivate me to keep this going. So without further ado, let's continue.**

Alice awoke with a yawn, stretching out her arms and legs as she rose from the twisted covers of the bed, disentangling herself from the tangled sheets that clung to her Big Sister suit. She had slept in it, the helmet and her weapons sitting on the bedside table. The suit had become like a second skin after so much time spent within its confines, and living in it was as natural as breathing. Sitting up, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gazed out its window towards the crumbling cityscape, memories of the previous night returning in a trickle as the haze of sleep faded. The anger, the tears, Daddy's stoic silence; it all came back to her, and the young woman swallowed hard, before furrowing her brow. She would not be ruled by her past. She had purged her emotions last night, a catharsis crying before the metal man she called father, and she would be strong, for herself, and for Daddy. Daddy. her thoughts turned to the lumbering Alpha immediately.

Daddy would make everything better. He'd take care of her, protect her. Keep her safe. When terrible sounds had come in the middle of the night, waking her with a start, it had been only mere moments before Daddy was standing in the doorway, gently urging her back to sleep. Yes, she consoled herself, Daddy would make everything better.

Silently reassuring herself of this once more, she reaffixed the weapons of her gauntlets to her hands, and tucked the helmet under one arm; she wanted to enjoy fresh air for a while longer, or at least a fresh as it got in Rapture. She entered into the decaying parlor room, only to find Delta staring out the same window she had left him at the night before, porthole aglow, body unmoving.

"Daddy," she questioned tentatively, "is it time to go?"

Her voice seemed to rouse the Big Daddy from his stupor, and the great metal diving suit creaked and groaned as he turned to face her, nodding once before heading back to the door of the apartment. Alice followed behind him, a sleek and silent shadow to his imposing, rumbling form.

Wordlessly, they filed down the moldering hallways, past stained and peeling wallpaper, bits of exposed rusty pipe, and cracked bowed in doors, treading atop the bedraggled rotting carpet. Many of the lights above and along the walls flickered haphazardly, and others gave no light at all, the pitiful illumination casting wild, flickering shapes upon the walls, their haunting forms like the ghosts of the fallen whose bodies now populated the building.

There was at least one room still filled with the living, however, Delta thought as he trudged down the halls of the fourteenth floor of the Andromeda Apartments, finally coming to a stop outside a relatively unscathed door, its brass plaque proudly proclaiming "Parson Residence" in engraved lettering. A bundle of wiring and lenses atop the frame appeared as a mock-up of Rapture security cameras, though it proved itself effective as soon after entering its light, Daddy and Sister found the door opening, Michael Carnegie's stony face coming into view.

"About time," he grumbled, glaring at Delta's porthole, "now maybe we can finally get started."

The Big Daddy took a step forward to enter, only to have the man's brow furrow and his hand rise up in the universal sign for stop.

"Not so fast Tin Man. You violated our home once, and you aren't taking another step inside until I trust you." He paused, cracking his neck with one hand. "And there's a slim chance of that happening."

Delta gave a low grunt, more a bellow of irritation than anything else, and stepped back from the doorway Carnegie stood adamantly in. The man gave a slight nod.

"Glad we understand each other, scrapheap."

The Big Daddy could practically feel the hate rolling off Alice towards this man, and with a small motion of his massive hand he gestured for her to be still. After all, it was as accurate a description of him as any, he silently admitted. Carnegie hardly batted an eye at the enraged Big Sister, her lip contorting into a momentary snarl. The man took a step forward, before turning his head back to holler into the apartment.

"Come on Billy, we don't want to keep our 'friends' waiting!"

With that, the creaky wooden door was drawn shut, and in the full flickering light of the hallway, the Big Daddy was able to fully look over his new, albeit tenuous, ally. Gone were the worn, well cared for garments of the previous night; in their place were heavier fare. Cracked and stained combat boots covered his feet, giving way to thick pants, scraps of leather sewed onto their surface as armoring, however small. A dark green shirt was just barely visible beneath a jacket that had received the same treatment as the pants and what seemed to be an impromptu bandolier; a cowboy's classic ammo belt, the leather strip going from a shoulder to its opposite hip, and completely covered shotgun shells and pistol rounds. There were even a few Tommy Gun ammo drums slung on one hip, a holster carrying the modified pistol they'd seen last night on the other, and a bowie knife held in its harness at chest level. The Tommy Gun was held in hands itching for the trigger, its surface pitted with scrapes and gouges as a testament to years of usage, and the barrel extended with some strange contraption whose tubes and wires extended back to the body of the weapon. What appeared to be a classic pump action shotgun, a far cry from the two barreled monstrosity the Big Daddy found himself carrying around, rested across his back in a harness, along with a limp and seemingly empty canvas bag. The man had come prepared.

Just as he had been observing Carnegie, Delta noted that the older man had been doing the same to him, albeit stealthily, his eyes lingering on the weapons the Big Daddy lugged around with him. The man was cautious, and knew how to size up and enemy. The Big Daddy approved. Silence reigned between the trio, and finally, with a creak of the door, the fourth member of their party emerged.

It was one of the two teenagers he had seen previously, a tall sandy-haired youth, broad shouldered and square jawed. He was clad similar to Carnegie, his denim pants and jacket haphazardly armored, a white tee shirt peeking out from beneath it. He too carried a pistol at a hip holster on his belt, along with a police baton most likely "liberated" from the remains of a Rapture Security office. Though where Carnegie had opted for more firearms, the boy, Billy, Delta assumed, had gone with something a bit more archaic. The crossbow he carried almost looked like it belonged in a museum, but further inspection showed signs of Rapturian modification. The weapon's arms had been reinforced with steel plates, and a mechanism of meshed gears and indiscernible purpose sat on its wooden stock. A single steel tipped bolt was loaded locked into the firing position, with what appeared to be an entire quiver of the things strapped to his back.

The young man stepped next to Carnegie and gave Sister and Daddy a similar eyeing over. The moment his gaze, not yet devoid of warmth and emotion like that of his companion, fell onto Alice, Delta saw the girl's pale cheeks begin to flush, and she fumbled to latch on her helmet, the pressurized suit sealing up with a hiss.

"Everything ready to go Mike?"

Carnegie nodded before turning back to face Delta.

"Let's get something straight. I'm in charge here, this is my operation. I know the lay of the land around here, and I know the risks. You take your orders from me and you follow them, understand?"

With an affirmative nod from Delta, the man gave a slight grumble, fishing into a pocket to retrieve a cigarette and a tarnished old lighter; no Incinerate plasmid for him, evidently. He took a long, deep drag of the cheap nicotine and paper, his face relaxing marginally.

"Alright then," he said, between puffs. "Let's get moving."

He readied himself with a few tweaks of knobs and dials on his weapons, only for Alice's voice to interrupt.

"Uh, where are we actually going?"

Her tentative question was warped by the helmet, its tone hollow and echoing. Carnegie savored his cigarette for a moment.

"Scavenging," he answered, beginning to glare at her. "We need some parts to help replace those turrets you two tore apart, and some other odds and ends for our resident gearhead."

He sighed, smoke blowing out his nostrils.

"Anymore questions, ask them now. Once we hit the streets we cut the chatter."

Silence reigned, save for his puffs of the little cancer stick.

"No? Good. Time to get this show on the road."

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Eleanor Lamb awoke with a yawn, rubbing her eyes to clear the sleep from her head. Rising up from the old futon, borrowed clothes hanging loosely from her lithe form, she walked toward the kitchen, and the strange enticing scents and sizzling sounds emanating from it. Slinking through the darkened hallways, her bare feet suddenly felt a transfer from the dry rustle of carpet to cold tile as she found herself enter the kitchen. The space was warm and alive with motion, scents, and sounds. Jack Ryan stood in the middle of it, turning from stovetop to counter top and back again in rapid succession, laden frying pans in each hand. The toaster ran in perpetual motion, spitting out slices of browned bread only for fresh pieces to be fed back in and the cycle continued. A short girl with a bobbing blonde ponytail was assisting him, ferrying plates bowls and silverware from counter to table in rapid succession, splashes of milk and garishly colored bits of children's cereal spilling out every now and then, only to be dabbed up by a quick hand with a towel. Eleanor felt her mouth watering at the mere sight of the things the two were preparing; sausage, bacon, eggs, and pancakes, all tastes and flavors she had not had in years. After Rapture's Civil War, the only things available long term where canned goods and fish, both of which quickly lost their luster. Before her was a veritable feast.

The growl of her stomach betrayed her, and the loud rumble roused the attention of both Jack and his helper, who she could only assume was another of his daughters.

"Morning there Eleanor," Jack waved slightly as he spoke, only to return his hand to the spatula he was currently wielding. "Figured we're feeding a crowd this morning so I decided it'd be best to get a head start on it. This is Liz, don't think you got a chance to meet her last night, did you? Anyway," he continued, cracking two more eggs into the mixing bowl, "let me get back to this. Lend a hand if you can, though I know that there probably wasn't too much cooking going on down there. Otherwise you can go help the others in getting the little ones up. Gonna' be a busy day."

"Thank the Lord its a Saturday," he muttered under his breath. With that, he was lost again to the frenzied preparations, and after her latest load of dishes, Liz paused and turned to the other girl, giving her a slight smile.

"I got things covered here, you can head upstairs and help them out."

Still slightly dazed with sleep, Eleanor muttered her thanks and left the madness of the kitchen for the stairs, a hot piece of bacon held delicately between two fingers as she savored every bit. It would indeed be a long day.

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Jonathan Calhoun heaved a heavy sigh and fell back into his chair, massaging his temples. It had been a long night spent pandering and patronizing generals and admirals and sending and receiving messages to and from both. He reached once again for the drawer with the bottle, pouring himself a shot. He'd know soon enough if it was all worth it. A heavy knock on the door was followed by Kombes's gruff voice, and the commander didn't bother to hide his drink, merely mumbling his approval for entry. the captain's grizzled form entered into the office with a crisp salute. Calhoun met it with a sloppy wave of his own, failing to note the slight clench of his subordinate's jaw, instead focusing all of his attention instead on the forms he held in his hands.

"Your request for the expedition has been approved, sir" The title was added grudingly, and Kombes slid the papers across the desk, where the commander grabbed at them like an eager child, quickly surveying the signatures, dates, and jargon littering them.

"Permission to speak freely sir?"

"As always, captain."

Kombes sighed.

"Sir, the old blood brass was _not_ happy about this, but they were overruled. Pursuing this is not going to make you any friends, and, as much as I hate to admit it," his jaw clenched once again, before relaxing as he continued, "our office doesn't have much of a role in actions over in Nam', so around here, things are starting to get a bit more about who you know, and less of what you've done."

He sighed once, his rigid posture slackening for a moment, a slight twang from his native Texas slipping back into his voice.

"Son what I'm trying to say here is that you're young man, and if you want to make a career in the military, you do not want these old boys out for your blood because you had to done go chase ghosts and the skeletons in Uncle Sam's closet. You hear?"

The commander nodded, pushing the forms away from him.

"Yes, and thank you. I'll take your advice into consideration. You are dismissed, captain."

Kombes sighed, saluted, and gritted his teeth at the poor form of the one he received in return before turning for and closing the door behind him, "Goddamn fool" muttered under his breath as he left.

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The pale scraggly haired man sat cross legged on his dingy bed, naked from the waist up, grinning madly as his wide eyes traced paths across the glorious Wall, strings connecting every scribbled note and article and photo. His gaze settled onto one, strings running out from it like the strands of a spider's web. Today would be the day a number of questions would be answered, a number of strings added or clipped. Today would be the day he paid a visit to Orrin Oscar Lutwidge.

**End Chapter. Sorry, a bit shorter than has been usual as of late, but things have been kind of busy. But I digress. Please keep up reviews, feedback is always great and helps motivate me ** **to keep this going.**


	16. Breaking News

**Disclaimer: I merely wish I owned the Bioshock franchise. I'm just...borrowing it some I suppose. Speaking of which, the teaser trailer for Bioshock Infinite just came out. Bad news is, it's not in Rapture. Good news is that there's another failed utopia with deranged residents , strange powers, and freaky part man part machine monsters, and this one can fly! I promise you its looks a lot cooler than I can describe, go check it out. Also, a new single player DLC for Bioshock 2 has been announced, Minerva's Den, featuring a new district of Rapture, new enemies, a new Big Daddy type, new tonics, and possibly new plasmids. So lots to look forward to. But now I will stop wasting your time with these announcements and commence with the story. Besides, hardly anyone ever reads these stupid disclaimer things.**

The four veterans of Rapture travelled in silence down the glass hallways, boots splashing through puddles, the deep bass of Delta's footfalls the only betrayal of their presence. Rapture's corpse glimmered outside, neon signs and spotlights still flickering beneath the sea, the gloom of the water and their poor light casting wild dark shadows on the buildings that remained. The skeleton of a whale, long since stripped of any flesh, was held between two "skyscrapers". Another teetered on the brink of collapse, seeming to shift ever so slightly with each passing current, a massive chunk of the structure crumbled into nothingness by the impact of a sinking ship, its hull a rusted barnacle encrusted tomb. This is what Delta observed as he trudged down the fetid, dimly lit hall, past water bloated corpses and stained bones alike. Death, decay. Rapture had fallen, a utopia no more, but a necropolis, a city of the dead and the damned, of monsters and their victims. There was no doubt in his mind as to what category he fell into. They marched on.

Finally, the quartet arrived at the door, and Carnegie signaled them to a halt. Fingers twitching idly on his tinkered with Tommy Gun, he turned to face them.

"All right, we're gonna' be entering Midtown's commercial district. There's a lot of shops, and a lot of offices. Our target is the Rapture Tribune building, up in the northeast corner." He punctuated this with the jab of a finger towards a map on the wall. "Records we picked up earlier said that it was having maintenance done on the printing floor, and a new computer and security system installed on the office levels right before this whole place went to hell. That salvage is what were after."

He narrowed his gaze at Delta.

"You two are here to deal with security, and any Splicers left in the building. Keep them off our backs, we can grab what we need, and get the hell out. Understand?"

He waited for nods of confirmation from both the Big Daddy and Big Sister before seeming content.

"Good. Everyone keep their eyes open, their weapons ready, and their own ass covered. Let's move."

With that, the grizzled man turned back to the automatic door and stepped forward, the metal rising up with the whirr of gears and the groan of old machinery. The four stepped through it, and into a tableau from a nightmare. The door led into an open courtyard, arched glass roof above it letting warped light filter down into the charnel house below. The floors and walls were painted with dried blood splatters and wreathed with bodies. Grime covered skeletons with the tatters of their clothes still adorning them littered the floors, some leaning against the smattering of barricades that the room held, walls cobbled together from vending machines, benches, and anything else that hadn't been bolted to the ground. A few unlucky souls had been pinned to the walls with harpoons, bodies hanging stiffly from the instruments of their demise. A flooded corner of the rectangular space held its own fair share of bedraggled bodies, the sparking cable hanging out from the wall explaining their downfall. Spent shell casings and shrapnel laid blanketed many spots. This was not a place for the living.

"Moneta Hall," Carnegie said, voice soft, reverent, and familiar. "Worst single 'battle' in the whole Civil War. C'mon. Nothing here but ghosts."

With that, he began to silently pick his way through the carnage, leading his companions onwards, careful not to disturb the bones beneath their feet.

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The administering of a meal to small children was not an easy feat. Jack Ryan knew this from experience, and had been dreading the coming of breakfast, hence his decision to begin preparing for it nearly an hour in advance. Slowly but surely, silent, wide eyed little girls began trickling downstairs, two or three at a time, each desperately clutching at the hand or pajamas of one of his own daughters, terrified of letting go of their new protectors. He sighed; he'd seen the very same kind of separation anxiety in his own five rescued Little Sisters for their first few months.

Eleanor descended the creaky steps with the last little girl in her arms, the still drowsy child leaning her head against the older girl's shoulder, her newly clean hair tickling the ear of her transportation. Each of the girls had been given a proper bath the last night, effectively burning through most of the household's soap and shampoo, before being dressed in some of the Ryan girls' hand-me-downs, which presently hung in baggy folds on their tiny frames. Getting them fitting clothes was currently a high priority. At long last though, all the girls were settled in at the table and, though tentatively at first, they set into the unfamiliar food with ever increasing fervor.

Jack didn't mind the distinct lack of manners; he had expected it. They were small children who hadn't had a proper meal in upwards of two years, he'd be worried if they _weren't_ ravenous. His own girls and Eleanor snuck bites in every now and then, seemingly involved in a small, quiet conversation of their own; he was glad to see them all getting along, shared experience producing an almost instant camaraderie between them. He watched as the older girls finally seemed to go their own ways, the conversation apparently having died down. The near gothic Masha had resigned herself to butting heads with the ever animated Katie, his two slim, raven haired daughters quietly bickering off to the side. Liz was playing mom to the little girls, the petite blond bustling from chair to chair to check on them. Eleanor still seemed to be in conversation with Marie, her mousy brown hair still in morning disarray. He overheard bits of their conversation; it appeared Eleanor was receiving American history and politics 101, before noticing his daughter pause to readjust her glasses, and he pondered the possibility of getting her contacts. That left only the green eyed, freckle faced Clare, who, as the house's resident diva and self proclaimed fashion expert, had most likely disappeared to the bathroom to brush her frizzy red curls into submission and/or drown it in hair care products.

He gave a content sigh. Everyone seemed to be accounted for, upon hearing Clare's frustrated, muttered curses drifting out from the bathroom as she struggled with her hair. It was shaping up to be a fine day.

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The greasy, pustule faced Splicer let the rusted length of pipe fall from his mutilated hands as he clawed uselessly at his throat, and the hard metal glove that held it in its choking grip, small spots of his morbid flesh sizzling beneath the hand's fingertips and palm as he kicked his legs uselessly in the air. With a final, idle squeeze, Delta crushed the mutant's windpipe and spinal column with a gruesome snap, and he tossed the now lifeless body aside. The creature had made the mistake of trying to ambush the four travelers, and had been in an unfortunately close proximity with the ill tempered Big Daddy's free hand. He was in no mood for delays. Their attacker dispatched, he turned back to face his companions. Only the young man, Billy, he recalled, seemed to show any small measure of disgust towards him. Carnegie's face was as cold and expressionless as Alice's helmet.

"Was all that really necessary?", he questioned, nonchalantly. "A bullet would've been faster."

Delta's only reply was an irate grumble, and he lumbered forward, the entrance to the Rapture Tribune building illuminated with bold faced sign in classic gothic lettering. They had encountered little resistance in their progress through the graveyard of a district, due in no small part to Carnegie's insistence on using the various back alleys and maintenance tunnels to continue onwards, bypassing most areas frequented by Rapture deranged denizens. These paths frequently featured low ceilings and narrow walkways though, much to the dismay of the Big Daddy in their group. Delta led the quartet through the gilded doorway and into the offices of the Rapture Tribune.

Immediately beyond the trashed receptionist's desk laid a split in the hallway, signs pronouncing where they led. To the right was "Printing Floor", and to the left "Offices". Carnegie took the lead again, leading them toward the "Offices", walking past the peeling wallpaper and shattered glass cases of framed headline pages. They made it to the stairs before Delta's heavy footfalls betrayed them.

Cackling, the reporter from hell appeared at the top of the stairs, battered suit and bloodied fedora hanging in tatters on his grotesque frame, bits of bulbous tumors peeking out from rips and tears. The remains of a camera hung on a leather strap around his neck, leading up to a twisted, sagging face with a permanent toothy snarl and half of a nose, and downwards to a machine gun.

"Extra, extra, read all about -"

His shouts were replaced with screams of pain as Delta saw a red and silver blur pass by his porthole and strike the creature in its chest, setting the monster aflame a split second later. With an inhuman howl, the weapon fell from its hands and the beast tumbled down the stairs with a cacophony of snaps, thuds, and screams, skidding to a stop before Delta's feet. A curt stomp ended its pathetic existence, and the metal man turned to see Billy pulling back the lever of his crossbow, a new quarrel slipping into the firing position, a large capsule of reddish gel in its shaft; the source of the flames, he assumed. Carnegie seemed to give him a nod of approval before swiftly frisking the freshly charred body, pocketing the few rounds of ammo and slightly burnt dollars the corpse held, and heading on up the stairs, weapon at the ready.

With Delta bringing up the rear, the four emerged into a land of cubicles and typewriters, rows of cramped desks that once played host to intrepid reporters and slimy paparazzi alike. A mail cart laid forlornly on its side, its contents long since rotted to mush from the stream of fetid water leaking in above it. A glass wall complete with tracks of venetian blinds looked out onto the production floor with its rusted hulls of machinery and stacks of decomposing newspapers alongside them, fetid water, ink and blood all running together in puddles on the floor.

A quick look around the office floor showed it to be devoid of any other Splicers, and Carnegie's prize laid in a corner, in the form of a stack of wooden crates labeled "Rapture Central Computing" and "Ryan Security" . A few had been torn open, their contents plundered, but madmen had little use for circuitry, and the rest appeared untouched. Carnegie meandered over to his prize, swiftly but methodically checking the drawers of desks and cabinets he passed. The Big Daddy watched, intrigued, as Billy fired a shot from his crossbow into the side of the archway they had just walked through, only for a wire to shoot out from its end and latch onto the opposite side, a device akin to his own Trap Spears. Silently applauding the boy's foresight, Delta followed him over to the boxes of electrical parts, beckoning Alice to follow him. Carnegie had set to work intently, prying open each box in succession before rummaging through its contents, taking whole devices or cannibalizing parts from them. Billy as assisting, equally engrossed in the work, though each man had their weapons close at hand.

Carnegie spared a moment to meet Delta's faceless gaze.

"Looks like we got lucky, Tin Man. The boys here never got around to installing the new cameras after everything went to hell. All the old systems would've been shut down for the update. WE got things covered here. Go check if there're any more of these crates round here alright?"

Delta gave a slight grumble of acknowledgement, and with a grunt and the pointing of a finger, he gestured for Alice to remain with the other men before he left, hoping that her presence would be enough of a deterrent for attacks. Splicers were just animals, but even animals knew fear.

He wandered the open space once filled with the click-clack of typing and the chatter of newsmen, now devoid of all sound and life save for that of the festering mildew on the walls and the incessant drip of a leaky ceiling. Lighting was periodic, some lamps flickering dimly ,some gallantly fighting on against disrepair, but far too many were completely dark, their bulbs burnt out or shattered. The Big Daddy mentally marked the locations of the two sets of crates he came across, but all too soon he had come to the end of the room, a stairwell to the next floor up greeting him. Its offer was enticing, but one look at the rotting wood of the stairs, and another back at his heavy booted feet discouraged him, and he turned to begin the trek back to Carnegie. Out the edge of his porthole, he caught sight of another series of framed front pages, and, curious, he spared a moment to glance over them. The fifth one in the lineup stopped him cold. "A Man of the Surface," it proclaimed in bold lettering, "an Interview with Johnny Topside". The name of the reporter credited with it made his blood boil. Stanley Poole. Poole, the cowardly death dealer. With one swift motion, the Big Daddy, smashed the glass of the frame and withdrew its contents, delicately tucking the paper away into a pocket on his suit. There would be a reckoning when he returned to the Atlantic Express, and he would have answers.

**End Chapter. Questions, comments, concerns, critiques? Please review. Feedback is always appreciated. Additionally, I apologize for any typos or grammatical errors you had to suffer through. My beta has been unavailable as of late, and I take full blame for mistakes made. Until next time folks.**


	17. Author's Note

**Author's Note: Dear readers, first of all allow me to apologize. Under any other circumstances, I would avoid posting a message like this within a story, but I believe that the situation calls for it.**

** As some of you may know, a new Bioshock 2 single-player add on was released not too long ago, and, as it is a tale of Rapture, is therefore an addition to the canon of the Bioshock universe. I am still trying to get my hands on the add-on, entitled Minerva's Den, and play through it. Now, seeing as I began this little story long before Minerva's Den was even rumors, there probably are going to be contradictions between them as to who dies, who lives, etc. etc. blah, blah, blah. For the sake of continuity, I will be ignoring any of these things that contradict what I have established in **_**Sea of Broken Dreams.**_** Once I am able to play through Minerva's Den, and get a good sense of its story, characters, and canon, I am going to try to include aspects of it if possible. Until then however, things will be business as usual here. I have heard nothing but good things about Minerva's Den, so if you liked Bioshock 2, there's no reason you shouldn't like this latest addition to it.**

** Also, I apologize for the lack of updates. School has returned in full force, and, sadly, it must take priority. Until next time folks.**

** jschneids**


	18. Paternal

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Bioshock franchise, only this humble fanfic. But you all knew that already, so let's continue, shall we? First and fore mostly allow me to apologize for the long gap in updating. There were a number of factors contributing to it, but now I'm back, and we can continue this little tale. Now as I mentioned in the Author's note (technically speaking the previous chapter), I had been waiting to get a hold of Minerva's Den and see what canon it has added to the Bioshock universe. I am happy to report that A.) playing through it is awesome, and B.) I should be perfectly able to incorporate parts of it into my story, but not just yet. I will put in a new spoiler warning for those of you who haven't played it once we get to that point. But for now, I've talked too much, so let's get to what you all came here to see.**

Delta stomped back towards Carnegie, Alice, and Billy, balling his hands into fists, gnashing his hidden teeth, and veritably shaking in rage. Poole. The slimy little man had known who he was, who Johnny Topside was, all along, and had fed him bits and pieces, tiny scraps of information enough to whet his appetite for more. The answer to the question that plagued his existence was held by the rat of a man who had in part condemned him to this condition in the first place. Poole, the liar and coward, held all the answers. It was perhaps the only reason Delta had left to let him live.

Futilely trying to calm himself, the metal man returned to where he had left his companions, finding the two men busy hoisting up their packs while Alice stood guard. Carnegie eyed him warily

"We're done with this one. Where are the other crates?"

Delta gestured towards them, pointing with the blood stained tip of his drill, and Carnegie and Billy headed off in the direction he had indicated, weapons at the ready. Alice's glass gaze met his own, and she cocked her head to the side as if questioning him. The Big Daddy merely gave a sharp angry grunt in a reply and headed off towards the others. Once again, Carnegie and Billy set to work, methodically sifting through the crates, taking bits and pieces of circuitry and machinery, efficient in their scavenging.

Alice heard it first, a faint, deep thump. Delta watched as the glowing porthole suddenly turned to focus on the door they had emerged from, its light fading from a warm green to a warning amber. The second time, everyone else heard. The thumps continued, and as their source neared, the sound and pattern became unmistakable; the lumbering gait of a Big Daddy. The heavy footsteps became muffled as the creature ascended the creaky wooden steps towards their floor. The glowing eyes and ghostly flesh of the Little Sister appeared before her protector, skipping towards the doorway, ADAM extractor in hand. It was then that Delta realized their folly. The trap crossbow bolt Billy had left in the doorframe reminded everyone of its presence with a crackle of electricity and scream as the hapless Little Sister triggered it. With a thunderous roar, the hunched form of an Elite Bouncer smashed through the doorframe, taking bits of the wall with it, and quickly placed its Little Sister behind it before turning its many crimson eyes on the four. Delta countered with a bellow of his own before charging the beast with his drill, meeting the creature's own attack midway. The two met with flying sparks the rough clash of metal on metal, and staggered back from each other, Delta shaking off his dizziness and vaulting over desks to put distance between himself and the enraged Bouncer. His back to the glass wall, Delta drew out his rivet gun, letting loose a volley of the white hot projectiles as the Big Daddy attempted to right itself, turning to face its opponent. Alice pelted it fireballs, but the monster was already locked onto its first opponent, and would not be deterred.

With both fireballs and near molten metal impacting it, the Bouncer burst into flames, roaring in pain as it revved its stylized drill and charged Delta once more. The Alpha Series had prepared to dodge, starting to jump to side when a searing pain struck him , his vision tinged pink, and he fell to one knee. The flaming Bouncer struck him with all the force of a freight train, smashing through desks and cabinets like they were made of matchsticks. The drill struck Delta's chest, and with a tinkling of shattered glass, he was weightless, his attacker's momentum propelling them both through the glass wall behind them. Time seemed to slow as the two Big Daddies tumbled through the air, crystalline shards glimmering in the dim light alongside rotting bits of wood .

The pink and its pain finally fading, Delta found himself catapulted into a pile of rotting newspaper, the filth cushioning his jarring crash. Flailing limbs wildly, the metal man extricated himself from the sodden paper, finding that the Bouncer had not been as lucky as himself. The Big Daddy lay sprawled on its back on the concrete of the production floor, trying, and failing, to right itself like some monstrous metal turtle. Tossing aside his Rivet Gun, Delta seized the crossbar of the Bouncer's spherical helmet his right hand before plunging gloved fingers of his left into one of its portholes with a crack of the breaking glass. Hellfire rushed from exposed fingertips, and flowed into the downed Big Daddy's helmet and armor, cooking it from the inside out as the beast struggled helplessly, mangled screams echoing through the building. With a final shudder, it collapsed, and the panting Delta removed his hands and retrieved his weapon. With fumbling fingers, he retrieved one of the special hypos Tenebaum had provided him with and quickly injected it into an IV port, his breathing slowing back to normal as he braced himself against one of the rusted printing presses.

Smoke rose in twisting curls from the portholes of the freshly dead Bouncer, the glass blackened and cracked, and the whole body reeking of burnt flesh. Looking up, he saw the hole where the shattered pane of glass had stood, the blinds now a tangled mess of snapped wood and knotted string, and through it Carnegie, Billy, and Alice, the newly orphaned Little Sister crying in her arms. The Big Daddy heaved a heavy sigh. He was already sick of this place.

oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooo

Jack returned from his quest triumphant, shopping bags in hand. He had successfully plumbed the depths of New York's secondhand clothes stores, and had managed to find enough garments to get all the former Little Sisters out of their torn rags and into fitting clothes. Exhausted, the man relinquished the bags to his daughters and Eleanor to handle distributing the clothing, and promptly collapsed into the couch; he had visited half a dozen stores to avoid attracting suspicion with too large of a purchase. One did not escape Rapture without at least a slight sense of paranoia. Slowly but surely, the girls trickled back in, dressed in an assortment of fresh clothes and, for the first time in years, shoes. No more would their bare feet tread Rapture's dying halls. Jack gave a slight smile of satisfaction, which slowly faded as a somber faced Masha approached him.

"Dad," she started, voice hushed, "I know they need our help, and better than anyone we know what they've gone through, but there's no way we can keep ten little girls here without attracting attention that we don't need."

Her eyes were somber, face pained by what she knew had to be said.

Rising to his feet, Jack placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I know," he answered, "and I've got a plan, don't worry. Just place your trust in your old man one more time," he added with a smile.

All the little girls were now present, clean in appearance but cowed in demeanor; Rapture's mental scars took far longer to heal than its physical marks. Sighing at this, Jack walked over to the small huddled crowd and bent down on one knee, bringing his own face closer to their level. With a moment of hesitation, he began in the warmest, most gentle tone eight years of fatherhood could breed.

"It's okay. No one's going to hurt you now. That scary place is far away, and we're going to keep you safe until we find you're families. You all remember mommy and," he faltered; using the word 'daddy' around them probably wouldn't end well. "Mommy and your father?"

Flickers of recognition crossed the faces of some, tears began to well up in others; Jack recalled from the files that a fair share of the kidnapped girls had been orphans. Cursing his lack of foresight, he took the pale hand of a near sobbing child and gently pushed back a few loose strands of hair from her face. He met her teary eyes with a calm gaze and a hug before returning his attention to the small crowd.

"Everyone has family that loves them somewhere out there, and they've been missing you and looking for you for a long time. And I promise that we're going to find them."

He paused a moment to survey the group. Some were still near tears, but every one of them seemed at the very least less intimidated by him. His own daughters were looking on with a mixture of pride and confusion at his promises, while Eleanor seemed to be in awe. He sighed inwardly, supposing that the girls would have to be informed of his 'acquisitions' at Mark Meltzer's house eventually. Pushing such thoughts aside though, he turned once again to the girls.

"Alright, now who remembers their real name?"

oooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooo ooooooooo oooooooo ooooooooo

The moment she laid eyes on her knight in rusting armor, the Little Sister's whimpers of fear became giggles and shouts of joy.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, all but leaping from Alice's arms to run up and hug his leg, the only part of him she could reach. Sighing, Delta heaved the child up onto one shoulder before trudging over to the nearest vent, leaving the charred and smoking corpse of the Bouncer behind him. the sudden, distinctive click of a firearm loading froze him in his tracks, and turning, he found himself facing Carnegie, his shotgun leveled at the Big Daddy's head.

"What are you doing to it?"

The question came laced with steel, an inherent demand for an answer; Delta had come to expect no less from the man. Words beyond him, the metal man could only point at the vent before continuing his march. The Little Sister perched atop him yawned loudly before giving a sleepy smile. With a delicacy and grace that defied the brute appearance of his gauntleted hands, the Big Daddy slowly sunk to one knee before gently standing the little girl up on her own feet, one massive palm on her forehead, another steadying her back. There came a blinding flash, and when the spots cleared from his vision, before him stood a changed child, exorcised of the curses of ADAM. As the former Sister scrambled to climb up the side of the vent, Delta rose to his feet and turned to face Carnegie, who had watched the entire affair. The stoic survivalist was pale, his ever stony gaze, softened.

"So," he started, voice quiet, "that's why the Doc trusts you."

Any response the Big Daddy could have hoped to make was drowned out as a bloodcurdling screech rent the air, snapping Carnegie back into the man Delta knew him as. Grunting, Delta jerked his thumb towards a nearby supply closet, and Carnegie nodded eagerly before retreating to its relative safety with Billy. The man was by no means a coward, but courage meant nothing to a Big Sister's needle.

Stepping out into the center of the printing floor, Alice following in his wake, the Big Daddy scanned the ceiling s and shadowed corners, finger primed on the trigger of his Launcher. A network of metal walkways crisscrossed high above them and even the windows of the offices, rusted supports suspending them over their heads. The second scream tore through the space soon after, and Delta roared his challenge. Alice's unease was palpable, and she fidgeted with needle and armor incessantly. Finally, with its third shriek, the Sister revealed itself, darting into view over head. Delta loosed a missile which she easily dodged, and was preparing to assail it with a stinging swarm of hornets when the Big Sister struck. With a idle flick of her wrist, telekinetic forces ripped the supports of the catwalks away, and the mess of rusted steel and rotten wood came crashing down upon them. Alice artfully dived out of the way, but Delta's lumbering form was to be his downfall, as the falling debris buried him in a tomb of twisted metal.

oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo

No. It was the single thought that ran through Alice's mind as she beheld the spot where not a second ago had stood Daddy. The warped remains of the catwalks had crushed the one person in the world who she knew cared for her. Denial was all too quickly replaced by an infernal rage, and with an inhuman wail, she charged forth for vengeance, blood red porthole locked onto the shadowy form of the monster who had dared take Daddy away from her darting about in the rafters. Clinging to the walls like the spider from hell, she leapt and dashed up towards the object of her fury, using the crossbeams of the ceiling and the remaining walkways as launching points for her next graceful leap. Finally, feet planted on the precariously swaying catwalk, she faced her opponent, and Big Sister as akin to herself as any, but any sense of camaraderie was burned away by a seething hate and bloodlust.

With a wild shriek, the Sisters met on the rattling catwalks, flying kicks and volleys of fireballs meeting each other in a cacophony of battle as stray strikes knocked loose even more parts of the unsteady ensemble of walkways. Swipes and stabs of the needle were met with likewise, blows artfully parried and countered with the grace of a fencer as the deadly duel continued on, banshee wails and the clash of metal filling the room. Letting loose and unearthly scream, Alice bombarded her opponent with fireballs, only for the other Sister to scramble out of their way and leap to a new perch, one with a path to it unobstructed by the hanging supports. Focusing all her energy into a single, savage blow, Alice catapulted herself through the air with a mighty leap before extending her leg in a kick, needle poised to strike should it fail. The kick connected with a crunch of shattered armor and bones, and, hopelessly entwined and carried by the momentum of her kick, the two Sisters plummeted towards the ground, the remains of the catwalks falling with them.

ooooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo

Through a crack in the wall, Carnegie peered out at the battle before him, as the two Sisters fell together with a tangled heap of metal, a deafening crash accompanying them. He watched in utter silence as one of the Sisters arose on shaky feet and hurried over to her prone opponent. Moans of pain could be heard emanating from within the spherical helmet, and her abruptly silenced as the first Sister let loose a triumphant screech before plunging her needle into her fallen foe's heart. The downed Big Sister gave a final, rattling death shriek before going still, and with a wet pop the victor pulled her bloody weapon from the freshly made corpse and turned to approach the mountain of debris that had buried Delta, and with a growing know of fear in the pit of his stomach, the man realized that he and Billy were next.

oooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooo

Blackness surrounded him, not a shred of light peeking through his prison. The crushing weight of the metal atop him pressed down on Subject Delta, his body protected only by the reinforced structure of his diving suit. The muffled sound of battle reached his ears, and the Big Daddy struggled in futility to arise, to free himself from his prison of contorted steel. His breathing came in ragged bouts as the metal man threw all his great strength against it in vain, his plasmid wielding left hand trapped uselessly beneath his chest. There came a thunderous crash, a piercing scream, and then all was silent. The thought that he had lost Alice, lost yet another "daughter", consumed his mind, and in throes of rage began his Sisyphean task with renewed passion. Slowly but surely, he shook his metal and concrete tomb, feeling the weight shifting above him. Taken with the fury of a grieving father, every fiber of his being screaming for release from his prison, Delta loosed a triumphant roar and burst from the debris, the mound of shattered metal collapsing where he emerged.

Electric death crackled in one hand and the drill that had sealed the fate of so many of Rapture's twisted denizens whirled in the other , eager for blood. A Big Sister stood before him, needle dripping crimson, seemingly stunned by his emergence. The original Big Daddy shook with rage and prepared to charge, when a faint sound reached his ears. Mournful sobs echoed out from the Sister's helmet, and in an instant Delta's fury melted away as he rushed over to the girl and near ripped off her helmet to reveal Alice's pale, tear-stained face and reddened eyes, salty teardrops streaming from her eyes. Half a heartbeat later, her needle had been removed, and Delta held the girl close as she dried her tears.

"Daddy," she managed through sobs, "I thought that you were...that she had...and I," Grief quickly resumed control of her voice, and the Big Daddy noted her sneaking glances at the nearby corpse of a Big Sister, bitter guilt playing across her sorrow stricken face. The metal man could only stand there in silence, a stoic shoulder for her to cry into. With the creak and rattle of an opening door, Delta watched as Carnegie and Billy emerged from their shelter and picked their way across the floor to meet them. Gone was the man's stony gaze, mournful sympathy in its place.

"I saw all of that," he said finally, voice devoid of a biting edge. "Maybe there actually is a man underneath that helmet after all. Come one, we've got all we can from here. Let's get the salvage back to our place, and we'll show you where you should look for those last Little Sisters. Then the Doc and us can all talk about getting out of this hell."

**End Chapter. Phew. Sorry it took so long, but here it is. I have been a bit distracted as of late, and my beta is nowhere to be found so I apologize for any drop in the quality of my work. Please review, tell me what you think, suggestions for the story, anything; feedback is always appreciated. **


	19. Allies and Enemies

**Disclaimer: I, alas, do not own the BioShock franchise, trademark, copyright, blah, blah ,blah, whatever, and am merely borrowing it for this fic. Without asking. Please don't sue me (pretty please). Anyways, speaking of the guys who DO own the franchise, there's a video clip of gameplay from the upcoming BioShock Infinite floating around out there on this crazy thing we call the Internet, and the game is looking absolutely awesome. If you're fans of the series (or just even of videogames in general), I highly recommend checking it out. But enough of my shameless advertising, you guys are here for a story.**

**RECAP (If you don't need it, skip on ahead): **

**We last left our heroes, villains, and variety of extra characters in many different situations. Poole, Tenenbaum, and Grace, along with the numerous freed Little Sisters, are awaiting the return of Delta and Alice to the fortified Atlantic Express station. Delta and Alice meanwhile have encountered a group of Rapturian survivors, whose past and ties to Tenenbaum remain shrouded in mystery. Our two metal heroes have just earned their trust and are heading back to their safe house after a successful salvaging mission, Delta having found evidence linking Poole to his past. Meanwhile on the surface, Alice and the Ryan family are now trying to care for the freed Little Sisters she brought with her, as well as return them to their original families. Jack recovered files and information to help them in this task from the home of Mark Meltzer, but not without encountering a mysterious assailant with great knowledge of Rapture and plans of his own. At the same time, the military is working on organizing an expedition that may very well discover Rapture! Got all that? You know you could just go back and read the actual story. Just saying.**

**Phew. Now without further ado, I present the newest chapter.**

The trek through the ruined waste of Midtown was made in silence, in part to avoid attracting the Splicers, and in part from emotional exhaustion of the travelers. Carnegie and Billy Parson led the way, laden with their bags of salvage from the Rapture tribune building, Alice alongside them. Delta came last, his spear gun in one hand, the rippling currents of Telekinesis in the other, keeping a vigilant watch. He could play guardian, protector, with hardly a thought; it was what he was made for. His true focus was on a scrap of newspaper hidden away in one of his suit's waterproof pockets. A scrap of paper that might very well hold the key to his identity, his past; the man that had died in Rapture to be reborn as a monster. It was a slow, simmering rage that he reserved for those responsible. The doctors and conmen who had condemned him to this fate had all died, by his hand or another, or had become monsters themselves. All but one.

Poole. The slimy bastard had known who he was all along. The framed headline from the offices of the Rapture Tribune was all the evidence he needed. There would be a reckoning when he returned. No one would deny him answers.

The quartet passed through the rotting heart of the necropolis of Rapture with apathy. Death, decay, madness; it was all too commonplace, a typical day in Ryan's fallen paradise. The crumbling facades of underwater skyscrapers did nothing to move their emotion. The bones that crunched under their feet as they passed through the massacre at Moneta Hall did not elicit a tear. Rapture steeled the heart, and calloused the soul, or consumed you.

All too soon, they had arrived back at the dying glitz and glamour of the Andromeda Apartments, and wordlessly ascended the stairs, floor after floor, until Carnegie's stronghold was reached. With a sigh, Carnegie gently placed his bag on the floor and walked up to the door of apartment 1432, the brass plaque proclaiming it "Parson Residence". The man knocked on it a flurry of motions, some discernable pattern beginning to emerge. There came a slight shuffling of feet from behind the door, a moment of silence, then the clicking and clacking of lock being undone. The door opened but a sliver, the barrel of a shotgun peering out to greet them.

"It's alright Becky," came Carnegie's tired voice, "we're all back in one piece. The coast is clear."

With a creaking groan, the door slowly swung fully open, revealing the shotgun's owner. A young woman stood before them, dark brown hair pulled in a ponytail that dropped over one shoulder. Her face kept a stoic impassivity, lips drawn tight, but brown eyes spoke volumes of relief. She was dressed in battered leather boots, and a pair of men's workpants that hung in baggy folds upon her. The cream colored shirt she wore fit, and a vest stitched together of patchy leather and metal scraps, much akin to Carnegie and Billy's own improvised armor was on top of that. The shotgun shells clipped to her belt did not escape the metal man's notice either.

The young woman, Becky Carnegie had called her, regarded the Big Daddy and Sister with wariness, despite the older man's words, and slowly lowered her gun. Steeping aside, she walked back into the main living room, checking over her shoulder near every other step.

With another sigh, Carnegie turned to face Delta.

"You're little surprise visit wasn't too well received, frying all our defenses and scaring the shit out of everyone. I saw what you did, and I trust you, but I can't speak for the others."

With that, he led the party into the apartment, Billy shutting the door behind him. Without impending crisis and the barrels of several guns aimed at him, the Big Daddy was able to take proper stock of his surroundings. Even with the city dying around them, it was clear that Carnegie and his group had made every effort to maintain their living space. Splotches of plaster were smeared all over, quick fixes to cracks in the walls. One corner was dominated by cases of light bulbs, another by drop cloths and buckets of paint and plaster. The tiles and metal of the kitchen shone through their layers of grime, obviously cared for, and piping from the sink had been fed through the top of a barrel on the counter, the faucet protruding from its base. Noticing his gaze, Carnegie explained.

"We fitted a water filtering system in there. The building's pipes still work, but there's no telling what can seep into them. We still have to boil it even after the filter."

Delta nodded, mute as ever, and continued walking. The table held the tell-tale marks of heavy usage; scratches and pits in its surface, a piece of wood slid between on leg and the ground to keep its stable. Becky took a seat, her back to the kitchen, always watching the metal guests. When Alice freed herself of her helmet and placed it onto the battered piece of furniture with a heavy thump, the seated girl nearly jumped for her gun once more. Carnegie merely shook his head and sighed.

"Gloria, Amir," he called, "come down here for a minute."

Amir. The name was familiar to Delta, but he could not put a face to it. Dismissing it from his mind, the Big Daddy turned to find a middle aged woman, no older that Carnegie, entering the room from a door on the far side, her frizzy and mousy hair streaked with gray. While Carnegie's face radiated as much emotion as a mask of stone, and Billy and Becky did their best to imitate, the very presence of the woman entering spoke of one singular thing; exhaustion. Deep lines were carved into her face, forged by far too many years of sorrow, her frame stick thin and brittle. Hands were hidden away in the pockets of a thick sweater, long skirt shuffling as she walked towards them in slipper shod feet. Baggy clothes did nothing to hide the distinctive silhouette of a handgun hidden at her waist, the sweater falling over to hide it. Her forlorn face and thin frame reminded the metal man of his first meeting with Tenenbaum, until a slight smile broke across the woman's face at the sight of Billy, only to evaporate as she noted the additional guests. She drifted across the room like a ghost, carefully putting distance between herself and the metal man and girl, until she was at Carnegie and Billy's side.

Amir entered from the opposite side of the room, where for all appearances it seemed that the survivors had cut through to the apartment next door, a rough archway patched together with wood scraps and plaster. He was a young man appearing the same age as Billy, but a polar opposite. Whereas Billy Parson was blond, square jawed, and stout, this newcomer was slender, dark hair and tan skin hinting at Middle Eastern ancestry, and carried himself with the air of a pensive observer. Workpants and boots stained with oil, paint, and God-only-knows-what, he too wore a shirt overlaid with the pseudo-armored vest that Carnegie's band seemed to favor, and a pistol tucked in his belt. It was what rested with it that piqued the Big Daddy's interest however. Pliers, a hammer, cutters, and small blades; this was evidently the source of the group's weapons' modifications. The headband he wore with affixed flashlight and swinging magnifying lenses seemed to confirmed this. He viewed the newcomers like an animal sizing up a predator, as if debating fight or flight. With slow, measured steps, made his way over to the cluster of his comrades.

Just as the five survivors had almost subconsciously drifted together in a cluster around Carnegie, Alice, as if sensing the tension in the room, had stepped closer to Delta, nearly pressed up against his side. Carnegie surveyed the scene with evident distaste. Breaking off from the group, he pulled over a chair as battered as the table it belonged to and sat down.

"We aren't going to be able to get out of this hell hole if we're always watching for a knife in the back," he said, a hint of the exhaustion of both his life and age creeping into his voice, only to be utterly crushed.

He turned on his companions with a disapproving glare. Guilt crept into the visage of Billy Parson, and he looked away. Gloria Parson's mournful expression did not change. Becky remained obstinate, meeting his stony gaze with one of her own, while Amir kept the part of the silent observer, eyes flitting from one piece of the Big Daddy's equipment to the next. Carnegie broke off his staring contest with Becky and heaved a bitter sigh before rising up from his seat.

"Fine," he said, turning his back on the group as he headed for the room Gloria had entered through.

"But like it or not this is who we're working with, so get used to it."

With that, the sullen man exited, leaving the other six residents of Rapture together with palpable tension in the air.

ooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooooo ooooooooooo

The cacophony of modern society echoed throughout the dingy alleyway as the man emerged from it into the streets, the stars in the night sky above eclipsed by the gaudy lights of man's towers of steel and concrete. A beaten trench coat was pulled tight around him, hat brim tilted low. Like a ghost, he clung to shadows, weaving through the shuffle of late night New Yorkers only when necessary. He knew his destination, and measured his strides with intent, long legs quickly chewing up the distance. Glimmering lights and bright displays were encountered and passed as he threaded his way from one neighborhood to the next, circumventing major streets in favor of dimly lit, trash smattered alleyways. Passersby eyed him warily, steeping to the side as they walked to give the stranger a wide berth, their questioning gazes flitting back and forth from him.

Finally, after innumerable blocks had been covered, the man turned down one final twisting alley, the narrow, shaded passageway coming to an abrupt end with the side of a ancient and stained brick building. A door that appeared just as old interrupted the expanse of discolored brick, and with only a moment to glance behind himself, the man pulled it open and slid inside, silently closing it behind him as he left the din of the city.

Ancient and crusty wall paper peeled at the edges, and the floorboards creaked under his weight. Bare light bulbs illuminated the sparse hallway with flickering light. The man stalked his way down them, passing the numbered doors with their tarnished brass. He drew himself to a n abrupt stop at room 17, and without hesitation slowly knocked on the door with a gloved hand. No answer came, and as silence reigned, he knocked again, twice this time. The shuffling of steps came from behind the door, and the man stepped back, right hand reaching into the depths of his coat to settle upon the form of a handgun. Slowly, the door creaked open, and a pair of calculating, bespectacled eyes peered out at him from the dank apartment, brows rising when they peered at the face hidden beneath the hat.

"Well, well, well, my little pawn," cooed a rasping voice from within, "look who has found the Queen and the court. Do come in, and share your news of Wonderland. You've at least earned that."

With that, the door swung fully open, revealing a scarecrow of a man. Clothes hung like loose rags about him, arms tapering off in gnarled hands with long bony fingers. Pale and gaunt flesh was stretched tight over the frame of his skull in some places, but hung in baggy folds with festering sores in others. A patchy stubble on the top of his shaved head was his only hair, and a prominent nose stuck out proudly on his face. Far more haunting though were his eyes. Beady orbs gazed out from sunken eye sockets, hiding behind horn rimmed glasses, taking in every detail. It was a cold gaze, calculating and methodical, but it carried with it a manic glint. With a shuffling gait, he stepped aside, allowing his visitor passage into the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

The visitor regarded his surroundings with apathy. The squalid, rancid apartment was no better than his own lodgings. Slowly circling him like some scraggly predator, a look of bemusement crossed the scarecrow's face.

"I must say, I'm impressed. I took many a precaution to secure my identity, and I was certain that little stunt in California would have shaken anyone on my tail."

He cracked a sugary, sinister smile.

"I'm almost glad to have been mistaken. Makes things so much more interesting. Do tell, what was it that gave me away?"

The visitor remained very still, moving only to keep his gaze leveled on the scarecrow.

"That strange fixation you've always had with Lewis Carroll, Mr. Lutwidge. It seems every new name you dream up for yourself has some root with him." The man sighed before continuing. "It was almost too easy this time. Oliver Dodgson? Merely the author's true last name, along with one of those 'O' names that you seem to be so fond of."

The visitor's smugness hung heavy in the air, and his host's face quickly turned sour as events unfolded.

"Now Mr. Lutwidge," the visitor continued, reaching once more for his gun, "with formalities out of the way, I believe we have some things to discuss. I am done with your little games, all the puzzles and misdirection," the visitor spat, leveling his weapon at Lutwidge's chest. "Tell me where I find Rapture, and you will leave this encounter alive. If not, well then I think you understand how things will unfold."

He left the last line hanging in the air with malicious intent, but his stony gaze faltered as Lutwidge's cackling laughs rung in his ears.

"Oh child," he managed between fits of chuckles, "oh a foolish little pawn, thinking he could take on the Red Queen all by his lonesome? You have much to learn."

His twisted levity was quickly replaced with a dark intent, and the visitor could only watch in horror as blue sparks seemed to coalesce around Lutwidge's fingertips. Realizing what was happening far too late, the visitor tried to bolt away, only to be paralyzed in place as agony shot through his body, static crackling in his ears and sparks flying before his eyes. Lutwidge shook his head and stepped forward.

"Poor little pawn. You have no idea of the forces you're dealing with, what you've stumbled upon. This is but a taste of what my Wonderland held. Me and you will be having a talk very, very soon, but for now, sleep,"

The last image that played before the visitor's eyes was the faint outline of Lutwidge's bony fist approaching his temple, and then, blackness.

**End Chapter. Short I know, and I apologize, but things have been a bit stressful as of late. hope the summary helped anyone who was behind on things. For my portrayal of Lutwidge, I didn't really have any reference to base him off because I didn't participate in the "Something in the Sea" promotional campaign. I ended up drawing a lot of inspiration from the first game's Sander Cohen, a genius, but one who was manic, deranged, and above all obsessive. To you diehard Bioshock fans out there, if there's any canon depiction of Lutwidge that I'm not keeping with, I apologize, and please let me know. Also, if you aren't familiar with the "Something in the Sea" campaign, then some of the references may not make sense. Sorry. Please keep up the feedback and reviews. Until next time folks.**


	20. Old Wounds

**Disclaimer: Blah, blah, I don't own anything but my own ideas and characters etc., blabbity, blabbity, blah. Those things get so boring after a while. Sorry for the delay in updates, but I'm afraid real life must take priority over this little story here. Anyways, thanks once again to all my reviewers, anonymous and known alike. The feedback you guys give is excellent, as always, and it really helps me keep going on this story, so please continue to tell me what you think. Without further ado, here is the latest chapter.**

With a pained groan, the man's eyes fluttered open and shut, only to reveal the grinning, ghoulish face of Orrin Oscar Lutwidge. Panic overtook him as memories returned, and he struggled to escape, only to find himself barely able to move. Eyes went wide as he beheld himself trapped in a stained straightjacket, and tied down to a wooden chair. His feet had been stripped of shoes and socks, and he found them placed in a metal tub of frigid water. As the memory of Lutwidge's hand, crackling with lightning returned to him, the man's face went pale as he noticed the pair of wires clipped to the tub, their ends held by his captor.

"Well, well, well my pawn, at last you are awake," Lutwidge said, his smooth, chilling tone sending shivers down the back of a man who had not felt fear in a long time. With a curt cackle, he continued.

"I see you are enjoying that little souvenir I brought back with me from Tollevue's fine psychiatric ward," he said, one bony finger pointing towards the straightjacket.

His prisoner struggled against it in silence as the man ranted on.

"Oh and just to really make sure you won't be leaving, I took the liberty of setting up this little apparatus, observe."

With a toothy and wolf-like grin, Lutwidge let a cluster of small cluster of sparks crackle between his fingers before shooting down the wires held. In an instant, his prisoners mind was filled with agony, locked in the spasms of a silent scream. Whether it was a mere heartbeat of pain or an eternity, he could not tell, his sense finally returning as the torturous electricity ceased to flow, the pain ebbing away. His breathing ragged, the Pawn looked up at his former master, the madman gleeful as ever.

"That was just to whet your appetite my dear boy. Answer my questions and you shan't have to taste it again. Now," his voice devolving to a venomous hiss, "how did you find me?"

His initial terror boiling away into anger, the Pawn forced himself to meet his captor's eyes, and slapped a small smirk onto his face.

"You'll get nothing from me, you senile halfwit. That the answer you were looking-"

His comments were curbed as bolts of electric agony shot through him once again. The basin of water steamed and the room reeked of burnt flesh. The scraggly, cadaverous form of Lutwidge leapt forward and seized the Pawn by his jaw, forcing their gazes to meet.

"Your acid tongue may just cost you your legs, boy," he spat, eyes blazing with the wild fires of lunacy. "A few more shocks and all manner of distasteful consequences could follow; every kind of pain, save death. I may just start...relieving you of some unnecessary parts of your anatomy, starting with something that would really leave the ladies quite," he paused for a chuckle, "_unfulfilled._"

His free hand retrieved and pressed the blade of a butcher's knife into the Pawn's abdomen. The victim squirmed in futility, imprisoned by his bonds. The terror he had first felt slowly creeping back upon him, the Pawn caved.

"Fine," the prisoner spat, "the name was a dead give-away. I don't pretend to understand what deranged mania with Lewis Carroll drives you, but a cross-reference with names in the city with names from his life provided a few dozen candidates. Factor in a few of your other obsessive behaviors and check on financial records, and I'm left with you, hiding in this dingy little tenement. Satisfied?"

Lutwidge released his vice-like grip and stepped back, beginning to pace, blade in one hand and wires in the other. Finally, he spoke.

"How did you come into possession of the information, those records are guarded surely?"

"Guards and archivists aren't really much of a hindrance once dead."

Lutwidge shrugged this new fact off casually and continued on, though he seemed slightly irate with the answer.

"Messy. Though evidently I too am getting sloppy in my old age. To think it was a simple paper trail that gave me away! Perish the thought."

Sighing, the madman ceased his pacing and turned once more to his pawn.

"Well my boy, it appears we are at an impasse. You see, you evidently know far too much to let safely frolic about in this urban wasteland, yet at the same time having to go out and dump a body in the river at this time of night is far from an appealing thought. And it does so grieve me to waste as resourceful a pawn as you. So, my offer to you, boy, is to make me an offer."

His wheezy cackle returned for a moment, only to quickly die back down. He resumed his tirade.

"If you can convince me of some worthwhile reason to let you live, then you have your freedom. Make me an offer, a barter, a trade of some value, and I shall ponder it. Hurry along now, we haven't all night!"

The Pawn sat in silence for some time, letting Lutwidge simmer to the point where his mottled, deformed face seemed ready to burst once more into fury.

"Well, anything? Have you anything of value?"

The Pawn met his captor's manic stare with his own, and a simple response.

"Revenge."

One bushy eyebrow jumped in intrigue on the older man's face.

"Oh really," he inquired, "do tell how."

"It's simple," came the Pawn's answer, fighting to keep his voice level, his tone calm. "I know that you found Rapture, and that you returned here with tales that everyone else decried as insanity. And I know that Ryan snubbed you."

Lutwidge's ghastly visage twisted even more as the man continued on.

"You helped him build it, helped funnel supplies into his paradise, your Wonderland. And then what does he do? He invites the world's best and brightest, but leaves you behind. You, the puzzle master, the schemer whose cloak-and-dagger dealings made keeping Rapture secret possible. You hate him for that, I know it, and so do you. So what do you say, is revenge enough to buy my freedom?"

"My boy," Lutwidge spat, trembling in rage, "we both know you couldn't possibly give me Andrew Ryan. You don't know where to find him or his city, and that's why you came here. That's one strike on your part, two more bad offers, and you'll end up floating out to the bay by morning."

The Pawn broke into a cold sweat, scrambling for his words.

"I, I can't give you Ryan, but I have the next best thing."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

The Pawn gave a nervous smile

"His son."

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Delta stared out at the murky waters beyond the glass window, Rapture's ghostly light casting wild shadows in the currents. Next to him on a beaten coffee table lay a stack of audio recordings. They were Eleanor, _his_ Eleanor, as a little girl, before the War, before the madness, when all she had to worry about was sneaking out to play with friends and dodging an overprotective mother. A mother which he took from her, the metal man thought grimly. _Will she ever forgive me?_, he pondered, wavy reflection providing no answer. _Will I ever even see her again?_

The innocent laughter and ponderings of a child echoed through his head, his mind swimming through guilt, sorrow, and rage near simultaneously. He felt as if part of him had been ripped away, so cruel and mangled a split that he could feel nothing, think nothing, do nothing that did not serve the purpose of bringing back his daughter to him.

Daughter. The very word almost seemed hollow to the Big Daddy as he used it. He knew not what true fathers were supposed to feel for their children. Would a true father feel this way? Feel like no beast of hell nor creation of man nor act of God would stop him from retrieving that girl who was his world, his very purpose in this city of the damned? It was all that he knew, all that he was built for; a machine, a tool cobbled together to keep a little girl safe. It was his one purpose, and yet he had failed...

Delta stared at the crude reflection in the glass, as if hoping for the answer to strike him, but to no avail. He turned away, glowing porthole of a face focusing once more on the table of recordings, played in a loop. Eleanor Lamb's life played before him in bits and pieces, echoes of an time before sisterhood, before ADAM, before her Daddy. It was the history of his daughter, the history of his _purpose_ in this pitiful excuse of an existence. It held her triumphs and failures, her joys and tears, memories good and bad. The crushing weight of the past and of hindsight weighed down upon him, these recordings sucking him in deeper and deeper into the pit of his own self-loathing, and yet like some shell-shocked bystander of a train wreck, he could not look away, could not stop, utterly transfixed by the piteous tragedy of Rapture.

The whispers of a new voice, foreign and unfamiliar, shook the Big Daddy from his tormenting reverie.

"That, that's Eleanor Lamb, isn't it? You were her Big Daddy?"

Whirling about to face this intruder, Delta found himself facing the slim, unassuming frame of the boy Carnegie had introduced, Amir, he called himself. As the name rattled about in his head, memories synced and realizations dawned. This was Eleanor's Amir, the childhood friend that she had spoke of so fondly and frequently in the tapes he played, those musings and messages forever immortalized. All the metal man could do in response was nod mutely, cursing once more his mauled vocal chords.

Visibly effected by this confirmation, Amir, seemed to go weak at the knees for a moment, before shuffling over towards the table that held the voices both man and monster held all too dear. The young man scanned over the pile of recordings in silence before speaking once again in what was barely more that whisper.

"Things make sense now, I suppose. You went after Eleanor didn't you? That was why her psychotic mother wanted you dead."

The simple nod was all the metal man could do in response, but Amir's rapt attention only grew, words beginning to tumble out of his mouth.

"I...she is still alive, right? I mean, I'm assuming that is so because you're still alive, and, well, sane as far as an Alpha Series goes, but one can never really truly be sure about assumptions and-"

Delta cut off the rambling flood from his mouth with the raising of one hand, then a confirming nod, one finger simply pointing upwards. Amir's brow furrowed for a moment before realizations dawned upon him, his gaze softened.

"Oh," he said quietly, "I...I see. She made it to the surface and you're still...I can only imagine what this is like for you, I got hold of some research on the Alpha Series, and, and I know how the Pairbond mechanism causes...side effects." The teenager paused to swallow, hard, before continuing. "If there's still a man in there, then know that you have my sympathies."

Delta could only grunt in response, and with one gloved finger stopped the looping playback of Eleanor's childhood that had filled the background of their conversation. Staring at Amir, the Big Daddy could almost feel the palpable sense of sorrow that hung in the air around him, some deep aching pain that the boy carried with him. This was a broken man, just as he himself was. The metal man could not help but feel some compatriotism to this boy, this soul that Rapture had chewed up and spat out as a jittery bundle of nerves. With a rumbling sigh, Delta turned his back away, facing the forlorn ruins of utopia through the looking glass of a murky window, silent as ever.

Amir watched him with fascination, this golem that had passed through hell and back, and defied death itself to find Eleanor Lamb. The man within the machine could not speak, but even in his muteness one could sense a smoldering rage, and a simmering guilt.

"Thank you."

The words caught the Big Daddy off guard, his curiosity piqued, but he kept his unblinking glass gaze upon the ruins of the city that had destroyed him. Amir continued one.

"Eleanor was my best friend as a kid, and," the boy hesitated, voice quiet as ever, "and, well it's just good to know that she survived all this. I know that you were a key part of that so...thank you."

Delta did not move a muscle, and the young man sighed, showing himself out of the room, and leaving the metal man in silence. With slow deliberate motions, Delta reached over to the table of recordings, and with the plastic click of a button, Eleanor's voice filled the room one more, the Big Daddy staring back off into the abyss.

**End Chapter. Sorry for the delay there folks, but what can I say, things happen. A happy Halloween to all those out there who celebrate it, and thanks once again for all your reviews and comments. Please keep them up, I love hearing back from you guys. Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, mistakes you found, anything really. Feedback helps me improve for the next chapter. Until next time dear readers, jschneids, signing off. You stay classy, . **


	21. Wild Card, part 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Bioshock franchise. This is merely a work of fanfiction that borrows elements of it. Well, that was just downright boring now wasn't it? Stupid things. Anyways, back to what you all came here for...**

The Pawn walked rigidly out from the tenements and back into the alley, the cold barrel of his own gun held to his back as Lutwidge calmly strolled after him, the old man's marred face hidden by the tilt of his hat. Cold sweat was trickling down his hostage's brow, the young man's heart racing even more as he noted a slight rustling noise echoing towards them from further up the alley. His captor had seemed to notice it as well, for with one swift one motion, the old man pulled in the Pawn closer to himself, a knife retrieved from his jacket pressed to the young man's throat.

With the younger man now acting as his shield, Lutwidge whirled about the alley, gun pointed at any perceived threat.

"Show yourself!" he called in a voice as harsh as a crows.

The only response was a muffled thump, and a moment later a sharp pain in the side of his neck as the sedative laden dart found its mark. His weapons fell from the man's hands as Lutwidge relaxed his grip on the Pawn, the older man staggering drunkenly before collapsing to the ground. Panic quickly overrode shock in the Pawn's mind, and he sprinted back down the darkened alley, only for a second dart to find its mark, and the same chemicals that had downed his former master began coursing through his own veins. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was blackness.

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Jack sat in his favorite armchair, nursing a scotch whiskey in one hand, a pencil and notepad in the other. Scribbles upon the paper were a half hearted notes, the man long since exhausted by the ordeal of the past few days. What had started as yet another attempt at deciphering Meltzer's files and maps had devolved into a moment of relaxation, as Jack Ryan prayed for a restful night's sleep. The little girls had all been tucked in and bid a goodnight, clusters of them sleeping in each bedroom under the watchful eye of one of his own daughters. Now, at last, all was quiet, and sleep was beckoning him. Finishing his drink, he tucked the notes aside and arose slowly from the cushioned depths of his chair, floorboards creaking ever so slightly from his motions. All that remained to be done was to turn on the security system, scavenged and cobbled together from Rapturian relics, and climb the stairs to his own room, free of children for the night as a gift from his daughters. With a content sigh, the man paused and straightened, leaning back to crack his back, only to the floorboards groan once more. He hadn't moved.

Out of instinct bred in that underwater hell, Jack's hand reflexively shot to his hip, grasping thin air where it expected the familiar weight of a revolver or heavy wrench. Silently cursing his own stupidity, Jack silently turned to face the source of the noise, only to find himself facing a black clad mountain of a man, ski mask obscuring even his face. In the blink of an eye, a gloved hand shot out, a glint of silver flashing in the dim light before the needle was stuck into his neck, the plunger depressed, and sedative flushed into his arteries. With a wheezing gasp, Jack stumbled backwards a step before collapsing into the giant's arms, the world around him fading to nothingness.

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The hapless Rosie died with a mournful cry, like a whale in its death throes, before finally shuddering to silence and stillness. The dirty, ghostly little girl cried over its body, the corpse like a metallic pincushion from the spears and crossbow bolts lodged in its frame. Black scorch marks covered the once proudly shining brass diving suit, blood, fuel, and mechanical grease dripping out of the downed behemoth. Silently, a second metal figure stomped into view, its massive, gauntlet clad had gently extended. The Little Sister cried with elation, her sorrow not even a memory.

Sighing, Subject Delta held the girl's hand as he led her to the nearby vent, carefully helping her up to the 'hidey-hole'. A blinding flash filled the dripping, dank space, and a moment later a wide eyed child babbled her thanks through tears of joy before scampering down the metal tube to safety. Delta turned to face his companions. Alice held her helmet in her needle-free hand, the metal sphere pressed between her hand and her hip. She had taken to removing it as often as possible, the Big Daddy noted. It makes her feel more human, he thought bitterly, visions of his own, monstrous visage burned into his memory. No, he resolved, mine will stay on.

Carnegie looked on, his stony gaze tempered with a mixture of respect and uncertainty as he looked upon the Big Daddy. Billy Parson was methodically retrieving his bolts from the Rosie's corpse, and the Big Daddy noted that the young man seemed to be doing everything in his power to avoid looking eyes, or porthole in his case, with either himself or Alice. The metal man grumbled idly. Trust was not one of Carnegie's group's strong suits.

Delta sighed once more, and headed back over to where Carnegie stood, heavy booted footsteps echoing through the dank alley, drowned out by the hissing of escaping steam from the pipes. Rapture was dying, piece by piece. The pipes and wires that kept it powered, the pumps that kept it dry; everything was in utter disrepair. Andrew Ryan's dream, a jewel of a city to shelter humanity's greatest minds, was slowly being reclaimed by the very sea that had kept it hidden, a new Atlantis to be buried beneath the waves, taking its dark secrets with it.

Delta stopped himself. Thinking like this led to nowhere productive. Doom and gloom would not get him out of this hell. But nestled away in the back of his mind was the creeping taint of doubt. Did a monster like him even deserve to leave this city of the damned? Thoughts of the family he had gathered about himself, the girls he had saved, Alice, and above all _Eleanor_, beat back the tide self loathing and disgust, but did not defeat it. The thoughts would return. It was a slow death, the agony of wanting your own demise.

Carnegie's words roused the metal man from his internal battle, returning his attention to the real world. Creatures such as he weren't meant for deep thinking anyways, he silently berated himself.

"The poor bastard didn't stand a chance," the veteran of Rapture said nodding approvingly.

"Well, by my count we only have one left to go. The maintenance tunnels from this alley will spit us out right by the Agora. It's this big shopping complex. That's the next place we should look."

The Big Daddy nodded silently, before turning to retrieve his spears from the body of the Rosie. He spared a final glance at the fallen Big Daddy, sorrow welling up in his heart as he felt a kinship to this mindless slave of the city, this monster so similar to himself. Poor bastard indeed.

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Consciousness was a fleeting sensation, a brief tingle of awareness that Jack clutched for wildly only to slip back into the drug induced haze. Finally, mustering his strength, the man forced his eyes wide open, the mute sounds that reached his ears echoing louder and clearer until he could recognize voices. Harsh, foreign voices conversing in a language he knew was not English.

The hood they kept on him smelled of something foul. Bits of chatter reached his ears, before a louder and domineering voice arrived on the scene, barking out what could only be orders. In an instant, the hood was yanked off him, and he was blinded by the lights. His eyes finally, painfully adjusting, survivalist instincts honed in Rapture took control, and he quickly surveyed his surroundings. The air was chilly, strong drafts blowing against the back of his neck. An opening to the outside had to be near, he concluded. The interior of the building looked gutted though. Dented and dust covered metal desks were bare of all ornamentation, and loose wires hung from the ceiling where long fluorescent lights had once stood proud. The light he had found so blinding upon his release from the hood was in fact a mere array of electric lanterns and flashlights. Thick tarps hung in various places along the walls, covering windows, he assumed.

With an experimental flex of his body, he discovered himself to be bound to an old office chair, hands chained behind his back and wrapped together, feet tied to the base of the chair. With his hands bound as such, the limited repertoire of plasmids he could still perform would be useless. His captors were well informed, or just lucky.

A quick glance to his right revealed two more chairs, each with an occupant bound as he was, though their hoods remained. The scent of cheap cigarettes reached him, and he traced its source to the dark silhouette that stood before him, the man's back to him, framed by the mad light of the lanterns. With one noisy, final draw of it, the shadowed man casually walked over to the prisoner adjacent to Jack and snuffed out to smoldering flame of the cigarette in the man's mottled flesh. There came a curt and muffled cry of pain from the prisoner, and the cigarette smoking captor's response was to idly flick the butt at his hooded face before turning to face Jack.

"Hello Mr. Ryan," he stated casually, stepping into view, his voice carrying only the faintest hint of an accent.

"We have much to discuss."

**End Chapter. Shorter than usual, I know, but I apologize and hope to deliver a quick update. Please review.**


	22. Wild Card, part 2

**Disclaimer: Surprise, surprise, I **_**still**_** don't own the Bioshock franchise, and this is **_**still**_** a work of fanfiction that borrows elements of it. Please don't sue me (pretty please). Alright, well here we have another quick chapter, complementing the previous one. Thanks to all reviewers. Enjoy**

Hands held behind his back, Jack's captor stepped into the dim light of his prison, leaving behind just enough of the shadows for his captive to observe him. He was not a tall man, short, but stocky, and the black combat fatigues he wore appeared as real as the pistol holstered on his belt and the AK-47 across his back, all similarly camouflaged. His face appeared clean shaven and handsome, his short cropped hair a pale blonde, until a second step out of the darkness revealed the truth. The left side of his face, from the corner of his mouth to the near non-existent eyebrow, was a mess of scar tissue, horribly mangled, his left ear a torn scrap of flesh and his left eye a milky white orb. Lesser scarring dotted the left cheek, gradually giving way back to more whole and normal skin. The scarred soldier smiled, and began to circle his prey.

"Jack Ryan. I must say it took quite a bit of work to track you down, though the fact that you kept the family name was quite the giveaway."

His prisoner stared at him with a stony gaze, his mouth a hard set line.

"What do you want?" questioned Jack. "Why am I here? Hell, where _is_ here?"

His captor finished his circuit around the chair to turn and face him once again.

"Oh, you know what we want, my friend. Give it to us, and you can return home, never to be bothered again."

Jack surreptitiously set to work on his bonds as he listened to the false promises tumble from the scarred soldier's smiling lips. He paused only to deliver his answers.

"What are you talking about? I don't know anything I..."

He was curtly cut off by his captor.

"What is that charming little bit of profanity you Americans like to use? Ah yes; bullshit."

Stepping menacingly forward, the soldier's smile faded, and cold, beady eyes settled on his target.

"In 1946, after spending most of his fortune in shell companies for construction supplies, Andrew Ryan, one of the richest men in the world, disappears, with every financial asset he owns liquidated. Over the course of the next six years, thousands of men and women from across the world, humankinds' best scientists, artists, and thinkers, vanish as well. They all went somewhere, Jack, we know that. You know where."

"What makes you think I..."

"In 1960 one 'Jack Ryan' appears in New York City with forged papers and a striking resemblance to a supposedly missing millionaire. There is no such thing as a coincidence."

Jack kept his face blank, cold apathy its only message.

"What do you want from me, I told you already I don't..."

"Liar! Tell us where they went, Jack," the man demanded, pouncing on his victim.

In the blink of an eye, a knife was pressed to Jack's neck, a rough and calloused hand pulling his head back by the hair to better expose his throat.

"Give us the information we require, or you die. Do you understand me?"

Jack laughed a laugh as harsh as a crows.

"I ain't afraid of you, bud, Go ahead, kill me," he spat.

His captor released him, and sheathed his knife with a flourish before facing him. The scarred soldier stared at him appraisingly, the milky orb of his left eye looking out blindly.

"You are not a man who fears his own death, one who is willing to give his own life for a cause, a purpose," the soldier started, holding his gaze steady with Jack's. "I admire that in man, a brave soul, akin to my own. But I wonder my friend, are you so willing to sacrifice the lives of those you love as well as your own?"

All color drained from Jack Ryan's face, before it erupted into a snarl.

"Touch a hair on any of their heads and I swear I'll-"

"You'll what? Please, entertain me with petty fantasies of vengeance. My men are in your house right now. You know this." The soldier's face hardened once more before he continued. "You have twenty minutes, Mr. Ryan. When I return, you will give me answers, or you will listen to your children die."

With that, the soldier returned to the shadows, leaving Jack alone, thrashing against his bonds and cursing him every step of the way.

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Eleanor Lamb awoke with a start, heart racing, from a fitful sleep, her dreams fraught with nightmarish scenes, dark tableaus and memories of lives that were not hers, a side effect of years of treatment from the ADAM of Rapture's deranged denizens. Carefully disentangling herself from the three rescued Little Sisters she shared the bed with, she sat up, tucking her knees up to her chest and holding them tight as she fought to dispel the visions from her mind.

"Father," she murmured, "where are you?"

A sudden muffled bump from downstairs snapped her to attention, and with ADAM enhanced senses she focused on the sounds, ears picking out several gruff voices, none of them Jack's, and none of them speaking in English. Heart pounding once more, her eyes narrowed, and she quickly checked on the little girls. All were still sleeping soundly, oblivious and innocent. With a grim set face, Eleanor evaporated into a cloud of purple mist. No one was going to touch her family.

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Carnegie, Billy, Alice, and Delta walked slowly down the halls of Midtown, the lumbering metal giant bringing up the rear. Carnegie held a tight grip on his Tommy Gun, eyes constantly scanning the buildings and storefronts they passed. Billy did the same with his crossbow, with the razor focus of a master hunter. Delta tried not to think of the prey as any more than animals; their humanity had rotted away years ago.

With practiced ease and calm, Billy let loose a shot at a lone Splicer standing out on a balcony above, grimy lead pipe in hand. The bolt struck its target with a wet thump through the neck, and with a silent scream the twisted man in his tattered business suit tumbled down from his perch. The fresh corpse's fall was abruptly cut short by the snapped remains of a street lamp, gravity impaling it on the sharpened post with the crunch of bones and the nauseating squelch of burst organs.

The quartet carried on in silence, pausing by the body for Billy to retrieve the crossbow bolt, now thoroughly soaked in putrid blood and gore. He calmly wiped it down on the tatters of the Splicer's sports jacket before rejoining the group. Delta watched, intrigued, as Alice, still carrying her helmet, hurriedly walked up to the young man.

"Nice shot," she complimented him, sheepishly, before quickly putting distance between them once more. The Big Daddy observed as her cheeks flushed scarlet, and, fingers fumbling, she slipped her helmet back on and refastened it, all the while with Billy watching her in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Delta grumbled, and shook his head. He prayed that Tenenbaum, Grace, or even one of the women from Carnegie's group would help her with this, because he was certainly having no part in it. Friendship and relationships were not pursuits well suited to voiceless, faceless, creature such as he. His mood now fouled by his own traitorous thoughts, the metal man brought out his Spear Gun, and hoped the next Splicer would be his.

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The man never stood a chance. With a wet pop, Eleanor's glinting, bloodstained needle burst through the soldier's chest, a gauntleted hand clamped firmly over his mouth. By the time the agonizing pain registered with his brain, the girl had snapped the man's neck and moved on, letting the body gently slump to the floor. She crouched down and scanned the room, listening intently for the creak of a board, the beating of a heart, a rustle of clothing. Let the hunt begin, she thought to herself, before disappearing into a cloud of mist once more.

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At last, their long walk coming to an end, the four travelers of Rapture found themselves facing a massive archway, black marble columns supporting it and lining the entrance. Above, in stylized lettering read _"Agora"_ . Carnegie scoffed at it.

"Ryan always did have a bit of an obsession with the Greeks and Romans, what with naming everything down here after their myths. Come on, this place is basically one big market. Big Daddies typically prowl on the lower levels, should be easy to find"

With that, he forged on ahead, gun at the ready, with the other three following in behind him. Delta surveyed the space they entered like any other. They found themselves entering into a massive chamber, a huge oval shaped floor with towering walls that led into a domed glass ceiling. On the far wall, in a massive semi-circle stretching up to where the glass began, was what looked almost like sets of cubbyholes, as if the entire wall was a giant honey comb, pitted by an infinite number of spaces and holes.

Carnegie pointed toward it with the barrel of his gun.

"Each one of those little dots was a store, a boutique, or whatever the hell the French call 'em. Five stories of them, from top to bottom. This was where most of Rapture's markets were. The rest of this floor space is parks and fountains." He paused a moment, sighing. "The shops were picked clean a long time ago. Not many living round here nowadays. Plenty of corpses though, people who died trying to protect their business from the looters, Splicers who killed each other picking over the remains. Your last Little Sister should be around here somewhere."

Carnegie led them across the metal floor of the Agora, through the once lush undersea park, now a forest of blackened, rotten trees and dead grass punctuated by a decaying body or dismembered limb. Fountains that had long since ceased to flow held pools of fetid water and water bloated corpses. The sudden crash of explosives, and the distinct call of an infuriated Big Daddy then met their ears, and without a word the four took off towards the source of the noise.

Emerging from the dead hedges in a paved square complete with benches and bodies of its own, Delta looked about wildly for the Big Daddy, only for the lumbering monster to come crashing out from the bushes in front of them, half on fire, roaring and grunting wildly as it tried to rev its drill. A second later a pillar of red light struck the beast, lighting it anew and delivering the final blow. A new roar echoed out from the park, one that Delta new well. It was the roar of an Alpha.

**End chapter. Phew, got most of this out in one sitting. Hope you all enjoy. Seeing as the hint has already been dropped, consider this warning that next chapter will incorporate elements of a certain single player downloadable content pack, and if you do not want spoilers for the plot of said content pack, DO NOT READ IT. Well that's it for now folks. Until next time.**


	23. From Russia With Love

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nada, zip, goose egg; whatever you want to call it, I don't own the Bioshock franchise. This is a work of fanfiction, and hopefully I won't be sued. Now, with that little bit of cheery business done with, we're moving on. Enjoy.**

His time was up. Jack watched as the scarred soldier returned, casually strolling back into view, radio in hand. The two men locked eyes, two impassive glares meeting. Jack had not wasted his time. Careful probing with Telekinesis had found weaknesses in his bindings, and with just enough force he had wiggled out enough of his palm to use plasmids. He was prepared.

The soldier eyed him contemptuously, his mouth in a small smirk.

"Well Mr. Ryan, it's just you and me," he started, "are you read you to cooperate now? My men are on standby. All it takes is one order, and then they start killing. One by one. And you'll listen to each of them until you give us what we want. Understood?"

Jack Ryan hardened his gaze.

"You're bluffing."

The soldier laughed, stooping down so that he was at eye level with his prisoner.

"Mr. Ryan, we took you from your home. You know that we have men there."

Jack held firm.

"I want proof," he demanded, voice uncompromising.

His captor sighed idly.

"Very well," he responded, standing back up and holding the radio near his mouth. With a crackle of static, he spoke into the machine. "Yuri? Describe to us Mr. Ryan's home, or, even better, one of his daughters." A wolfish grin grew across the man's face as he hissed out the last words.

No answer came from the radio. Suddenly, a burst of static erupted, followed by a muffled scream and a wet thump. Then came silence. The soldier's good eye went wide.

"Yuri! Answer!" The rest that followed was not in English, and Jack still guessed wildly at the language. _Something Eastern European_, he thought, mind racing. _German? No, accent isn't the same as Tenenbaum's. Polish? Russian..._

Suddenly it all made sense. The Soviets wanted Rapture just as bad as everyone else. His captors were Spetsnaz commandos, sent by the KGB. Sweat beaded on his brow. _The girls aren't safe. I've got to get them out of there, got to get out of here I..._

Another burst of static from the radio retook his attention, along with his captor's.

"You're next."

The two words were delivered with finality in a feminine voice, faintest trait of a British accent. It was a quiet voice overlaid with steel and will, a statement of inevitable fact, not a threat. The commando dropped the radio, stepped back and pulled out his pistol, aiming the weapon at Jack's forehead from point blank range.

"Who was that?" he demanded, growling out his words. Jack cracked a smile.

"You've got nothing. Your men are dead, and anything that you can try to do to me won't even compare to the things that I've seen, the agony I've felt. I went through hell and came out on top. Nothing in your little bag of tricks scares me."

The Russian spat out what Jack could only assume to be curses before cocking the gun.

"You arrogant American pig," he spat, "so confident in yourself, such a cocky little bastard. I'll show you pain like you've never..."

There came a sudden, muffled explosion, and the screams of men echoing up from the lower floors, and for a moment the soldier let his gaze stray, turning back towards the faint outline of a door. Jack made his preparations, quickly squirming into position. When the Russian turned back to face him, Jack grinned once again.

"Sounds like Uncles Sam wants to play, so I'd better be leaving."

With a careful flick of his still bound wrist, the man willed a vortex to form beneath his captor, a sudden rush of wind flowing across the floor before coalescing beneath the soldier's feet. With a scream, the man was thrown into the air, crashing into the ceiling tiles before being slammed back to the ground by gravity. Wasting no time, Jack braced himself for what needed to come next. With a grunt of pain, he summoned a blaze of fire into his hand, the flames scorching his flesh but chewing away at the bonds. Hands free, he made quick work to free his legs, and in a matter of moments he was one his feet, standing over his still groaning jail keeper. With the hand of an expert, Jack methodically stripped him of anything of value, tucking the pistol into his belt, before discarding the AK. An unfamiliar weapon would only slow him down. He gave the man an extra punch to the temple to keep him on the ground and found the soldier's knife. He spared a glance at his fellow, hooded prisoners before looking back at the blade. In a fit of conscience, he pressed the handle of the knife into the still bound hands of the man next to him before giving each of them a mild shock to rouse them from the drug induced stupor. He gave the soldier one last check over. No forms of identification, and not a hammer and sickle in sight. They were professionals then, black ops. Nothing that could be used to trace them back to their nation. As far as the general public was concerned this man didn't exist.

Jack glared coldly at the soldier on the floor, the sounds of the battle below echoing up into his ears. He gazed at the pistol he had tucked into his belt. It was a foreign weapon. No serial number, untraceable. The man before him had threatened to kill him, and Jack had laughed in his face. But to threaten the lives of his daughters was to make a mortal enemy of Jack Ryan. Ignoring the pain of his seared flesh from the blast of Incinerate that had freed his hands, Jack withdrew the pistol and aimed it at the man's head.

"Send my regards to dad and Fontaine, you bastard."

Three shot rang out, an each found their mark. Work done, Jack stowed the pistol and bolted for the exit, the wakening groans of the other prisoners hastening his departure.

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Orrin Oscar Lutwidge sat in blissful blackness, mellow sounds mumbled into his ears. There came a great whooshing noise, and he could feel the air tickle his legs. Suddenly, he felt something pressed into his hands, some shape indeterminable by his comfortably numb fingers. A searing flash of pain struck him from the drug induced haze, and shocked his deranged, calculating mind back into action.

He could see nothing, blackness, surrounded him, and sounds slowly but surely coalesced into sharp sensations. Memory came flooding back to him, and a singular conclusion emerged; he had to escape. Deft hands fumbled over the item pressed into his grip, and with glee he found it to be a blade. The ropes binding him fell to the ground with a light thump, and he tore off the hood with urgency. Squinting to adjust to the light, the madman found himself in some abandoned office complex, the night and pitiful lighting obscuring most detail. Wasting no time, he set to work on the bindings of his feet, and in a matter of moments was freed. Impartial to the sounds of gunfire and death below him, the man leisurely strolled over to the bloodied corpse before him, ignoring the struggles and cries of the man bound next to his chair. Crouching down to inspect the body, he dipped his fingers into the blood leaking out from the bullet wounds in the chest and temple, feeling the warmth of it and the flecks of brain matter. He smiled, silently thanking his liberator before turning his attention to his fellow prisoner.

With a flourish, he removed the hood, only to gin even further as he saw his Pawn. The younger man's eyes went wide, and his shouts died in his throat.

"Well, well, well," Lutwidge purred, "it would appear that this is becoming a habit, you being at my mercy."

The Pawn swallowed hard, scrambling for words, realizing how his former master must have seen things.

"I, I don't know what happened. Please, I know how it must seem. But I have no idea who these people are. I didn't have anything to do with this, I...look they tied me up too, why would they do that if I had-"

His groveling was cut short as Lutwidge's grimy hand closed around his neck.

"You are pathetic," he growled, running the tip of the blade across the man's cheek ever so lightly, a trickle of blood following in its wake.

"You're in luck though," the older man continued, backing off, only to return with a strip of cloth he had idly cut from the dead man. "You see, we're a bit pressed for time, so I can't do everything that I had in mind."

Cold beads of sweat poured down the Pawn's brow, his face white as a sheet. This man was truly the devil incarnate. Lutwidge ranted on, pausing only to forcefully stuff the ball of cloth into the man's mouth as a makeshift gag.

"Now I'm not going to kill you this time," the maniac began, adopting an almost fatherly tone. "That would just be a waste of a good mind, completely irresponsible of me, you see? But I can't just let a little backstabber like you loose on the general public," he spat, all traces of paternalism vanishing in a heartbeat. "So, my dear Pawn, I'm going to let you off mostly intact, but with a little warning label for the good people of this city."

With that, Lutwidge placed the knife in his left hand, just a small inferno sprang to life in his palm, the blade was soon cherry red, and the madman set to work, grinning all the way.

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Lutwidge surveyed his handiwork with a lopsided smile. He contemptuously noted that his Pawn had blacked out in pain. Clicking his tongue in disapproval, he turned his attention to the soldier's body once again. The old man gleefully scooped up the dead man's assault rifle, quickly relieving the body of all extra ammunition.

"Ah the AK," he said to no one in particular, gently running his hands over the weapon. "So elegant in its simplicity. Much better than those hand-me-down Thompsons we had down in Wonderland." He sighed, looking at it affectionately. "Well my new friend, let's get acquainted. It sounds like there's some party-crashers downstairs." With a cackle, the madman tucked the still warm knife into his belt, along with the curved AK ammo clips, and headed for the stairs.

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The curt volley of bullets that struck the door to the first floor as he approached it had prompted Jack to turn tail and sprint back to the second floor, whipping the door open before slipping inside and slamming it shut behind himself. He found himself in yet another mess of abandoned office space, with row upon row of desolate cubicle and filing cabinets. Pallid moonlight came in through wide windows, illuminating the whole space. Jack found himself drawn to the glass portals, finally given a chance to survey his surroundings. The building wasn't in the city, that much was certain, but off in a the distance, a jagged, gaudily lit skyline glowed; the beckoning lights of New York City. The man's mind raced as he searched for an escape route, a grimace spreading across his face when the only thing he found was a massive gnarled oak tree a few feet from the window. The man cursed, before quickly rubbing his temples.

"What did I ever do to deserve this," he muttered, before taking a step back and taking a look at one of the many dust collecting desks. It passed inspection, for a moment later, the metal construct was flying through the air and into the window. The glass shattered with a sharp crack, the infinitesimal shards tinkling in the air as the fell, only to be overwhelmed moments later by the resounding basso crash of the desk meeting the ground.

Jack shook out his hands and cracked his back; years of disuse had let EVE buildup in his blood, and working it off felt good. With a sigh, the man backed up to the wall, and took a running start.

**End Chapter. Please comment, review, or just give feedback in general. It helps me to improve, and give you guys a better story. Until next time folks.**


	24. Clash of the Titans

**Disclaimer: Why yes, I do secretly own the rights to the Bioshock franchise, and this is definitely not just a work of fan fiction. No, really.**

** Anyways, here's what you all came here for. Enjoy.**

** Props to anyone who guesses who our mysterious foe is.**

The sounds of combat were music to the madman's ears, and, grinning, Lutwidge kicked open the door from the stairwell and emerged into the battle. A few quick sprays from his newly acquired AK-47 decimated the three unsuspecting soldiers who had crouched behind cover with their backs facing the stairs, their bodies tumbling to the ground like ragdolls. He found himself at a junction in the hallways, a crossroads with three new paths laid out before him. He took the one with the most bodies in it.

"Its days like these that remind me of Wonderland," he murmured to himself, with a dreamy sigh, hurrying down the hallway. Gunfire echoed throughout the building, intermingled with the groans of the dying. A few shots silenced them.

With a whistled tune on his lips and a skip in his steps, Lutwidge ventured further into the chaos.

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The Alpha's roar echoed throughout the cavernous chamber, and Delta answered in turn, pulling out his Machine Gun and loading in a case of armor piercing rounds. In the blink of an eye, Alice was at his side, her helmet latched on and sealed with a hiss. Off to the side, Carnegie and Billy readied their weapons, slowly backing away from the source of the disturbance. With a thunderous crash, a new Alpha burst out from a wall of dying shrubs, its whirring drill tearing the plants to pieces. Perched atop its shoulder sat Delta's goal; the final Little Sister, the ghostly girl taunting her protector's enemies with sneers and frowns. Delta opened fire, and a hail of bullets was sent flying towards his opponent, some finding their mark, but all too many missing as the Big Daddy revved up its drill, the magnetic field it generated deflecting many a shot. Delta grunted in annoyance. An enemy with equipment equal to his own would not be an easy fight. Before the original Big Daddy could make another move though, his opponent was on the attack.

Delta watched as his foe pulled out a Spear Gun and loaded in a rocket spear, ready to fire. Before it could shoot the deadly missile though, the Alpha found itself floored by metal park bench, telekinetically thrown by Delta. The Alpha fell backwards onto the pavement with a resounding crash, the Little Sister thrown screaming from his back, and its weapon clicking with the inadvertent squeeze of the trigger. Delta could only watch in horror as the rocket spear shot straight upwards, its explosive payload propelled onwards a stream of fire. With a loud crack, the spear lodged itself into the pane of the glass ceiling directly above them, tiny streams of water spraying in through the tiny fractures.

Six pairs of eyes watched it in mute terror, even the Sister ceasing her cries upon the sudden realization of danger. Silence like the calm before a storm reigned in the great chamber, only to be broken by Carnegie.

"Oh shit."

The spear exploded with all the force of soggy firecracker, but it was more than the already weakened glass could take. A web of spindly cracks spread out from the spear's point of impact, like ripples in a pond, and a moment later, it all gave way. With a thunderous, howling roar, the glass shattered and the fury of the ocean rushed in. A column of icy blue-grey water pummeled the ground it met, flattening dying trees and turning the grassy knoll it fell upon into a swirling muddy tide which was sprayed out across the room. Soaked from the spray, Carnegie took hold of Billy and ushered him towards the door.

"Alice!" he called out, barely audible over the roar of the water, "Grab the Sister and come with us. She'll trust you. We've got to get out of here before this place floods!"

Turning to face Delta, he met the metal man's glowing gaze.

"Take care of this bastard and meet us back at the apartment. I'm sealing the door after us so the district doesn't flood. There's an airlock back over in the shops!"

Delta nodded, and turned back to the thundering pillar of water, the muddy, detritus filled tide already up to his ankles. He watched as Alice dashed forward, fighting the current, to snatch up the screaming girl from behind the fountain she'd taken shelter in. Holding her under one arm, the Big Sister spared a glance for Delta before sprinting off to meet Carnegie and Billy, who were nearly at the door. The Big Daddy watched as the blast door sealed behind them, and then turned his attention back to the inrushing waters, his foe buried somewhere beneath them.

A roar echoed out over the thunder of the tide, and turning, Delta saw the Alpha arise from a tomb of shattered tries and twisted park benches, opening fire with a stream of bullets from a Machine Gun. Thus began a deadly dance, each titan of Rapture dodging the attacks of the other, circling and retreating around the great crushing column of seawater that flooded in from above. Spears flew wild, white hot rivets sizzled and sputtered as the cold water struck them, and grenades soared through the air, only to be caught and tossed back to their sender.

With a grunt of pain, Delta yanked out the harpoon lodged into a chink of his armor and retreated back around the pillar of thundering water, laying down a set of Cyclone Traps as he went. The swirling vortexes picked up the water in which they sat, quickly morphing into tiny whirlpools, but were all but indistinguishable from the muddy eddies the seawater had created. Shotgun in hand, the second Alpha ran into view, and right into the trap, shooting skywards, only to be caught up in the downstream of water and slammed to the ground. Trapped beneath the fury of the ocean, the Alpha gave a wailing, gurgled scream, only for the howl of the waters to smother it. With a rage born of pain and memories, the Alpha series clawed and crawled his way out from under the crushing column of seawater, emerging with a roar of defiance. Spotting his foe clambering up out of the now knee high water, the Big Daddy willed a gelatinous, purple black globule to form in his hand and traded out his shotgun for the monstrous collection of wires and lenses strapped to his back, popping a blue cell into its loading chamber.

With a roar, the Alpha held in the trigger, and the weapon he held hummed to life, light sparking inside the glass chamber. With his left hand he lobbed the now green tinged blob towards his foe, the polyp landing and bouncing about in the fountain's lower tier, unnoticed by this new adversary who had stolen away his Little Sister.

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As soon as he saw his foe trapped beneath the waters, Delta began searching for higher ground. Finding his salvation in the very same fountain the Sister had hid behind, he clumsily climbed to the top, keeping his feet out of the water. He turned about to face his opponent, only to find that the Alpha had somehow escaped the pounding torrent and stood mere yards away from him, some strange, glowing weapon in hand. A split second later, beam of blue tinged light shot forth from it, and a searing, blinding pain struck him in his chest, throwing the original Big Daddy off his perch, crash landing into the lowest level of the fountain with a massive splash. Groaning, Delta turned to look to the side, only to find a strange green and black blob bobbing in the water next to him. Without warning, the glob exploded in a spray of green and purple, splatters of burning acid coating him and sizzling on his armor.

Delta could only watch as the very air around him seemed to warp and ripple, and he felt as some invisible force pulled his body forward then back, up and down, whipping him about like a rag doll. With a pained grunt and a mighty crash, the Big Daddy was slammed into the side of the fountain, shearing off its top tiers and cracking its base. Dirty, rust tinged water sprayed out in a geyser as the old fountain's pipes were cracked, and Delta took hold of them in desperation, hoping to end his wild ride through the air, but to no avail. Chunks of pipe and concrete came with him as the force took hold of him once more, swirling him about one final time, now with broken bits of the fountain pelting the Big Daddy as well, before sending him hurtling to the ground.

The metal man found himself violently shot forward into the waters, slicing through the dirty and swirling tide to come crashing to the pavement floor, face first. With a groan, Delta rose to his feet to see his mysterious opponent closing in for the kill. The original Big Daddy staggered forward, only to sink to one knee with a splash, and watch as his foe continued his approach, pulling out a Shot gun and loading all cylinders, intending to finish things.

_ No_, Delta thought, forcing himself to rise once more. _No,_ he repeated, watching as the other Alpha took aim. _No. Not here, not now. Not him!_ With a roar, the metal man willed forth a freezing spray from his outstretched palm, just as his opponent fired his first shot. Channeling all of his fury into the icy blast, he paused only to refill on EVE, and surveyed his handiwork. Already soaked in water, the second Alpha was covered in a thick sheen of ice, with his arm outstretched, shotgun in hand. Each pellet of buckshot could be seen, frozen just as they had exited the barrels in a rounded glob of ice. Knowing he did not have much time, the Big Daddy sighed in relief for a moment as the healing fluids from a First Aid kit coursed through him, then pulled out his drill. This had gone on long enough.

The ever rising water forcing him to a slow slog through the murk, Delta reached his target just as the Alpha broke free of its icy prison, and pulled out its own drill. With a roar and a crash, the two behemoths met, drills whirling. They held each other in a brutish duel, with swinging drills, punches, kicks, and flying plasmids. Strikes met counters, and counters met parries, each and every blow delivered with inhuman, crushing strength. The howling roar of the water was overlaid with grunts of pain and rage, the piercing crashes of metal on metal, and the rumbling whir if the drills the two Daddies wielded against each other, all coming together in a cacophony of destruction and fury.

The two beasts of Rapture found themselves at stalemate, for no matter the rage each possessed, neither could gain the upper hand. As he moved to dodge an attack, Delta stepped back, only to find his foot settling not onto firm ground, but upon the slime and muck that had begun to accumulate on the floor, a grimy mixture of black mud, dead plants, and rotting wood. With a deep basso cry, the Big Daddy slipped and fell on his back, head slipping underwater. With a triumphant roar, his adversary stepped over him, crouching down to pin his victim. With a deft hand, he struck the fasteners at the base of Delta's drill, and the weapon fell away, its bindings shattered. Delta raised a hand to stop him, only for the whirring drill to smash it away. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Delta watched the spinning tip of the drill approach his porthole of a face, bubbles flying off the weapon and churning the already murky water as the drill was lowered down through the water.

"Herr Delta!"

A voice buzzed in his ear, crackling with static as the radio struggled to hold its signal.

"Herr Delta, you must ...," the messages were broken with static, but the sound of Tenenbaum's voice awoke something within the metal man. Memories flashed before him; pictures of Tenenbaum and the girls he had rescued, of Alice crying herself to sleep in his arms, images Carnegie and his kin, fleeting glimpses of _Eleanor._ With fury and wrath born of grief and joy, hate and love, pain and loss, Delta raised stretched out his palm as the tip of the drill sat scant inches from his glassy window to the world and willed it to halt with every fiber of his being. Shaking in concentration and rage, he took hold of the spinning instrument of death with Telekinesis and pushed. The drill began to shudder as it spun, its descent halted.

With a bloodcurdling, earthshaking roar, Delta arose from the waters made putrid by Rapture's corpse, forcing his enemy's weapon back with nothing but the force of his own will and the ADAM coursing through his veins. With one final grunt of exertion, Delta thrust his palm forward, and the drill on the second Alpha's arm was ripped from its bindings and tossed aside, the Big Daddy knocked into the now waist high water by the force of it. He scrambled to his feet, only to see the form of Subject Delta charging towards him, porthole glowing crimson.

With a savage roar, Delta threw himself upon his foe, taking hold of his shoulders and ramming his head forward with all his might. Helmet met helmet with a clang like a bell, and the Alpha staggered backwards as Delta released him. His vision cleared just in time to see Delta's gauntleted fist swing. The original Big Daddy laid into his foe, arms swinging, each blow landing with a thump and a clang. Vague memories, warnings of madness, faded to the back of his consciousness.

He saw only red, felt only rage. The identity faceless monster he now fought, so akin to himself bled together with every mutilated, mottled faced Splicer he had slain, a new face rising up out of the murk with every blow. One punch met the frowning apish mask of a Brute Splicer, the next smashed the smug and bespectacled face of Sofia Lamb. He knew not where he was; the faux Roman colonnades of the Adonis, the gaudy streets of Siren Alley, the twisting corridors of Persephone, it did not matter. A single, all consuming thought burned through his mind; kill. With a roar to rival that of the ocean's, Delta took hold of the battered form of his enemy and with the strength born of mindless rage hauled him aloft before sending him soaring through the air.

Their battling had taken them across the floor of the great chamber, and the Alpha crashed into the solid plated steel wall before tumbling into the water. Delta gave a roar of triumph. He would crush this enemy, rend it limb from limb, keep his -

"Herr Delta!"

The sudden, harsh voice pierced the haze of his bloodlust, and the Big Daddy fell to his knees, his senses returning.

"Herr Delta, you must control yourself," Tenenbaum screamed at him through the radio. "Check his glove, he may be an ally! Quickly, go!"

Rising on shaky legs, the Big Daddy slogged through the now waist high water to reach his fallen opponent. The distinctive crimson of blood leaked out from its armor, staining the water even darker. Tenenbaum cursed in German and urged him to hurry once more. With trembling hands, Delta took hold of a limp, gauntleted hand and held it up for the camera, wiping away the scum on its armor plating. A Greek letter was embossed into it, similar to his own armor, yet different. What appeared to be a large, stylized letter "E" was imprinted upon the armor; Sigma.

"Herr Delta, this man is an ally! Make sure he does not perish! He has objects of great value to our escape with him. Take him back with you to Carnegie, and make sure you recover all of your equipment."

With that, the radio crackled once more, then went silent. Still shaken, Delta leaned in close to the helmet of his fallen foe and heard the distinctive rattling breath of a Big Daddy, but faint. He was still alive. Reaching in a storage pack on hi armor, the metal man brought out a First Aid Kit and, flipping the alpha over, found the tank which held such healing fluids, and fed them in. With a slight squelching noise, the tank flushed them into his veins, and the Daddy's breathing returned to a normal pace. With a sigh, Delta propped him into a sitting position.

The water was up to his chest by the time he found the weapons that had been dropped. It had reached his shoulders as he was readying to leave. With all the equipment reattached and stowed, Delta gave a slight grunt as he dipped his head under water and took hold of the unconscious Alpha, Subject Sigma. Slinging his fellow Alpha series across his shoulders, Delta shuffled off in search of the airlock, the memory of what had just come to pass haunting him.

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The two soldiers stood next each other, supervising the clean up. The engagement had cost them more than expected. The one man sighed.

"Permission to speak freely sir?"

The second man sighed.

"Go ahead corporal."

"Sir, the men are just a bit scared of all this. A whole nest of Spetsnaz just outside New York? Some lunatic sprinting through the building, laughing. Hell, we just found Johnson and Haversam by the east door. Johnson was crushed with a file cabinet and Haversam, God, frostbit everywhere, was pale as a sheet. Neither of them are going to make it. This is just too damn weird."

The second soldier frowned, sighing.

"It's about to get weirder corporal"

The corporal's eyes went wide. "Sir?" he questioned tentatively.

"You're helping to fill out the report on this, so you might as well see it all. Come with me."

With that, the two officers headed to the stairs, the corporal pelting his superior with artfully dodged questions the entire way up. They emerged on the fourth floor, and the corporal surveyed the scene before him. A black clad body laid in a heap on the floor, blood pooling out from it. Three chairs sat in a row, each with bindings, but it was the third that held his attention. The first two were empty, their bonds cut, but the final held its prisoner, an unconscious man. A medic was walking away from him, shaking his head.

"He's alive," he said to the two officers, eyes tired, "just unconscious. Though I'm not surprised he passed out from all of that."

Before the corporal could ask what the man meant, the smell of burnt flesh reached his nose, and, stepping forward he saw what had happened. Letters and words had been seared into his flesh, etched in with hot metal. _LIAR_ and _PAWN_ were scrawled across his forearms. His shirt had been ripped away, and a great swirling question mark carved into his chest, seemingly random numbers and letters surrounding it. _TRAITOR_ was emblazoned onto his forehead and temples, and stretched from ear to ear, and lead down to a single, taunting message cut along the collar bones; _Catch me if you can._

**Phew. Pumped out most of this in one sitting, so if there's any glaring mistakes, I apologize. Bonus points to any of you who guessed that our mysterious Alpha was indeed Subject Sigma. It is safe to say that the next chapters will have spoilers for Minerva's Den, so consider yourselves warned. As always, a great big thank you to all of my reviewers. Your feedback is invaluable, and helps me to improve. Well that about it folks. Happy holidays to all, I hope 2010's been good to you. See you next year.**


	25. The Long Road Home

**Disclaimer: Blah, blah, don't own anything but my own characters and storyline, blah, blah, blah. Well, hope everyone had a nice holiday, but without further ado, lets resume the story. **

Delta trudged through the winding underwater alleys that snaked through Rapture's corpse, moving at a laboriously slow pace as he struggled under his burden. Big Daddy's were heavy creatures, even the relatively slim Alpha series. The Alpha he held slung over his back, Subject Sigma, Tenebaum had called him, was unconscious, slow rattling breaths or pained groans coming echoing out from his helmet, muffled and distorted by the waters around them. The original Big Daddy carefully picked his way over the bits of crumbled masonry, twisted metal, and shattered glass that had fallen from once shining towers, the sea now intent on reclaiming what had been taken from it. Bones and rusted bathyspheres lay dashed against the rocks, coral, kelp, and all manner of oceanic life clambering to cover it up, to bury the works of man in this graveyard for a city of the damned, new life burying up the dead. Tiny fish fled from larger ones as the darted amongst the debris, taking refuge in bits and pieces of Ryan's dream turned nightmare. Delta walked onwards, straying from his path only to casually pluck off a glowing ADAM slug from a rock or rusting metal bulwark. He would harvest the genetic slurry that it had unknowingly doomed the city with before discarding the hateful little creature. They had done enough damage, he reasoned. The world would be better off with a few less of them.

The narrow pass between the two rusting buildings finally gave way into a wide sandy space of sea floor, and another maze made of stones, life, and death. The Big Daddy sighed and trudged onwards, eyes peeled for another airlock back into Midtown.

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Alice sat upon the ruined couch in Carnegie's apartment safe house and peered out the cold glass window into the sea, helmet discarded on a nearby table. Tears dribbled down the side of her face, lingering for but a moment one the long pale scar of her cheek. She sat and cried in silence and solitude, save for the sleeping Little Sister next to her; Carnegie and Billy had told the others what had transpired, and no one wanted to approach a grief stricken Big Sister.

_He can't be dead, _she thought to herself, over and over again, as if in hope that repetition would make it true. _Why did he make me leave_, she demanded in silence, the last image of Delta that she had burned into her memory. There he stood, the one who had rescued her from the madness and blood-lust of Lamb's slavery, her mentor, hero, and_ father_, locked in mortal combat, and she had abandoned him. After over a decade of the delusions and insanity of a Sister, guilt was an entirely new sensation, and it was crushing. Fury gave way to sorrow, with self-loathing always bubbling up in between. The creak of a door opening shook her from her misery, if only for a moment.

Craning her neck, the once Big Sister saw as the young woman who had greeted her and Delta at the door with a shotgun, Becky, Carnegie had called her. She was dressed as she had been, though sans shotgun or armored vest. Her chestnut colored hair hung in loose curls, tumbling down past her shoulders. Noting the sleeping Little Sister, she artfully dodged creaking floorboards as she walked over to the couch, before delicately taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, so as not to disturb the ghostly child.

"What do you want," Alice spat, stifling a sob.

Becky was silent for a moment, her eyes pensive. "Too talk," she answered, softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

Alice's eyes were reddened from tears, and they peered out harshly at her companion. "I thought we were just another bunch of monsters," she sneered, "what makes you want to talk now?"

"Monsters don't cry over losing the ones they love, they don't grieve. Mike and Billy told us what happened. It's not your fault."

"I left him to die!" the former Sister hissed, tears resuming their course down her porcelain white skin. "He needed me, and I wasn't there for him, I, I should have done something, should have-"

"No," Becky interjected, keeping her tone calm, "you did exactly what you should have. You saved everyone you could . He chose to stay there, and but time while you three escaped."

The former Big Sister's glare hardened, tears coming hot and fast, and she fought to keep her voice down, lest she wake her charge.

"You didn't know him," she sputtered, "you don't know what it feels like to-"

"To what?" Becky demanded, emotion creeping into her voice. "To lose someone you care for? To feel guilty over it?" She shook her head and gave a little half laugh. "Look around you, at this, this place. It throws people together and tears them apart every day. Everyone here knows that kind of pain, that survivor's guilt. Only most people left are too spliced up to notice."

Alice stemmed the flow of her tears and faced her new companion, absently stroking the sleeping Little Sister's hair. "Is that supposed to make me feel better," she whispered, traces of venom seeping into her tone. "Is that supposed to help?"

Becky merely sighed. "No, no its not. I can't give you anything to comfort you, any kind of true solace. But he can."

The Big Sister perked up slightly at this, snapping to attention.

"Draw strength from memories of loved one, but don't dwell on them. If he's really gone, if it was his time," Becky shook her head ever so slightly before continuing, "then what do you think he would have wanted you to do, sit there crying about it, or finish what he started. There'll be a time to grieve, but it's not now."

Alice stared hatefully at this new face next to her, this girl hardly into her twenties who had been aged beyond her years by a nightmarish existence. "How can you say that when-"

"My mother was Doctor Julie Langford," Becky gave in a hushed tone, with irreverent elaboration on the title. "I barely knew her. Her work just, consumed her. Then," the girl's voice faltered, shaking, "then the Kashmir was attacked, and the whole city started going to hell. Suddenly Mom was all over me, wanted to spend every waking minute with me. I think she felt guilty, leaving me on my own so much when I was little, and she just thought that she could make up for lost time." Becky gave a bitter scoff. "We had a fight. Some stupid argument over me not wanting to go with her to Cohen's latest operatic nightmare. Said a lot of stupid things to each other, we both stormed out, me to a friend's apartment, and her to work." The young woman paused, swallowing hard. "I was fourteen, and that was the last I ever saw of her."

Alice was at a loss for words. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, "I didn't know that, that you had...what happened?"

"Ryan put the city on lockdown. Those extra gene tonic she had taken got to her, made her delusional, obsessive. At least that what the rumors said. Then, Jack came, and everything here changed." Becky gave a tired sigh as she saw Alice's eyes light up with curiosity.

"Jack. I've heard the name everywhere, but, what does it mean? What did he do?" the Sister questioned.

Becky shook her head. "You've only had your mind back for what, two days? Makes sense you haven't heard of him." She paused a minute to glance at the beaten clock mounted at the wall. "Well seems like we have the time. Mike is trying to get a hold of Tenenbaum on Amir's radio. Get comfortable and I'll tell you the whole sad story..."

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It had taken him nearly an hour, but Jack found himself mere yards from his home, and he gave a small sigh of relief. He had dumped the car he's stolen in the Hudson, and walked the last ten blocks. The chills of the nighttime air seeped in through his tattered clothes, but the man paid them no heed. Jack froze in his tracks as he rounded the final corner, and laid eyes on a nondescript black van parked outside his home. _The Russians,_ he concluded, silently cursing.

The man crept up alongside the car, and with a thought, frost formed on his fingers and freezing mist coalesced in his palm. He gripped a tire iron he had liberated from the car in his other hand. It wasn't his wrench, but it would work just fine. In one fluid motion, he pounced, jumping up alongside the driver's window, ready to bash in the glass and freeze its occupants, only to find the driver face down on the wheel, blood in a puddle at his feet. Instinct bred from his journey through Rapture kept the man on edge, and his weapons close at hand. With a grimace, he recalled Eleanor's message over the radio, and a panic over the outcome overtook him.

Taking care to remain out of the sight of windows, the man made his way up to his stoop, and gently tested his door knob. It was unlocked, which only fed the flames of his panic. With trembling hands, Jack opened his door, pushing up ever so slightly to take pressure off of the squeaking top hinge. Knowledge of one's own home had a definite advantage in this situation.

With the tire iron hefted in one hand, and fire softly smoldering in the other, Jack Ryan slinked into his house expecting a fight. What he found shocked him.

The short entry hall led to the kitchen, where light spilled out, and a crimson stain was creeping across the pristine white tile. For the first time in a long while, Jack Ryan felt fear, true, full, unadulterated terror. His own mortality and life was irrelevant, a fact that the man had long ago made peace with, but that of his daughters was another matter. Armed men, enemies, had come into his home, the place where his children lived and slept, and now there was blood pooling in his kitchen. It was the possibility of whose blood it was that utterly terrified him.

With shaking hands and an uncertain step, Jack strode down the entry hall and peered into the kitchen to find, with a mix of relief and horror, the bodies of three black clad men, their weapons idly sitting beside them. In the corner directly opposite them sat Eleanor, knees clutched to her chest, bits of her Big Sister suit strewn around her, and tear stains on her face. Red and puffy eyes met his gaze, a sorrow stricken face overwhelmed with guilt and confusion. Jack heaved a heavy sigh of relief tempered with exhaustion, placed the tire iron on his counter, and let the fires die in his hand before disdainfully stepping over the bodies. They were sitting in the middle of his home, after all. He pulled the girl to her feet, and she promptly buried her face into his shoulder.

"Come on now," Jack whispered, in a fatherly, if tired, tone. "We can talk about this later. Right now we're gonna' need a tarp and a whole lot of cleaner. Probably some ammonia if that crap got on the carpet."

**End Chapter. Thanks for bearing with me through the wait. Sorry its hsort, but what can say. Real life must take priority, sadly. Please keep up the reviews, I love hearing back from you guys. Questions, comments, suggestions, or criticisms (constructive, please) I take all feedback. Until next time folks**


	26. Pains and Revelations

**Disclaimer: At last! My crack (or crack-head, as it sometimes appears to the casual observer) team of con men and charlatans has pulled it off, and I own the rights to the Bioshock franchise! [Disclaimer's Disclaimer: I do not nor will likely ever hold the rights to this marvelous franchise.] Anyways, back to the good stuff...**

"Well, I hate to bring it up, but I know you're all thinking it. We have to plan for the possibility that Delta didn't make it out of the market and-"

The veteran of Rapture was cut off as Alice's pale fist, sans gauntlet for the first time in years, crashed onto the table, shaking the beaten wood with strength that defied her slight form.

"He's not dead," she, like a mantra. "He's not. We shouldn't be talking like he is."

The ghostly young woman had shed the Big Suit that had been her prison for years, changing into some of Becky's old clothes, which hung loose on her slim frame. She was free of the metal monstrosity which had imprisoned and sheltered her for the better part of the last decade, at least temporarily.

Carnegie shook his head slowly and mournfully, genuine sympathy in his stony face. "Alice, we all want for him to have made it, but the fact is we need to be ready if he didn't. Hope for the best, but plan for the worst, and if it is-"

A sudden pounding on the door silenced all conversation. Time seemed to freeze as every pair of eyes fixed on the battered wooden door to the apartment, and the knocking came a gain. In a heartbeat, Carnegie had scooped up his shotgun and crossed the distance to door, peering out the dirty peephole, only to let out a sigh of relief. With the speed of practiced skill, the man undid all five of the rusty locks newly affixed to the door, and allowed the wooden portal to swing open.

Standing there in the doorway was Subject Delta, blood, grease, and soot clinging to his once pristine brass armor, its plates scarred and beaten. With a grunt, the original Big Daddy shrugged and readjusted the massive load slung over one shoulder, and with a near silent gasp, Alice recognized it as the Alpha which had attacked them. The Alpha that had almost taken away her Daddy. Carnegie wasted no time in leveling the barrel of the gun at the limp Big Daddy's porthole. Delta gave a grumble of protests, muffled by his helmet and sheer exhaustion. Thankfully, the radio in his suit crackled to life, and Tenenbaum's voice poured out in a burst of static.

"Michael," she started, "thank God Herr Delta has reached you. This is Herr Sigma, an ally I had feared lost. He has been operating in Minerva's Den on the other side of the city, and when I'd lost contact with him, I had feared the worst. "

Carnegie eyed the battered bundle of man and machine. "Go on," he intoned, an edge creeping into his voice as he eyed Sigma suspiciously.

Tenenbaum sighed and continued. "He was an...agent," she said with resignation, lacking a better term. "As part of a deal I made to gain assistance in escaping this place, I performed a similar process on him as I had done to Herr Delta, freeing his mind so that he could aid us. He was to retrieve vital data from Minerva's Den, and return to me."

"Well I take it that didn't happen," Carnegie retorted, finally lowering his gun. He shook his head. "Doc they're both in pretty bad shape, I don't know what you want me to do for 'em."

"Patch them up as good as you are able to. I can finish repairs here at the Atlantic Express. When you are finished and they can travel, you should all come here, so that we may pool our resources."

Carnegie mulled this over silently, moving out of the hallway and gesturing for Delta to enter. The Big Daddy struggled under a step forward, only to falter and drop to one knee, hard. The massive thump that accompanied his fall shook the moldering floor boards and rusty framework of the apartment before him, and Alice heard the tinkling of broken glass as framed pictures fell from their shelf. With a groan, the Big Daddy lugged himself back upright, readjusting the leaden weight of Sigma across his back.

"Alright Doc that I'll have to think on that one, but right now we'll get these two buckets of bolts back in working order. Billy, give me a hand here. Amir, get the workshop ready."

With that, the rest of the Rapture survivors fell into preordained roles, leaving Alice alone at the table, her mind reeling at what was going on. Amir and Becky had dashed off to some unknown room, from whence the clangs of banging metal and whir of machinery was soon emanating. Gloria Parson had bustled into the kitchen, and seemed to be fishing out glass bottles of all shapes and sizes with peeling labels, alcohol for antiseptic. Meanwhile, Billy and Carnegie himself were struggling to assist the lumbering behemoth that was Delta into the workshop. Alice watched dumbstruck as Daddy plodded forward, blood and oil dripping out of his armor, as a wild new notion struck her; Delta was merely mortal.

For the entirety of her brief bout of true consciousness, the former Big Sister's very world had been founded upon the principle that this man of flesh and steel was her infallible Protector, a great unconquerable bastion to shelter her, just as the memories of her ADAM muddled childhood remembered. Yet the creature before her was not her knight in shining armor, no righteous indomitable champion. She knew not what to think of the battered form that passed by her. Mind spinning, the young woman backed away from the beaten Big Daddy, glass crunching under her feet. With a shocked stare, she let the two Rapturian monsters be led into the workshop, only then sparing a glance down at what she had stepped on.

Shards of glass and faux wood laid around the photograph of a woman and young boy, her hands affectionately on his shoulders, with trees and grass in the background. Kind eyes looked out from the woman's delicate face and a bob of dark hair, leading down to a simple housedress which hung elegantly on her. The little boy beamed, his front tooth missing and grass stains on his jeans. Alice carefully flipped the photo over, and in curt, slanted handwriting a message was scrawled; _Nina and Donnie, Arcadia. _The date proclaimed was nearly a decade ago.

The gruff noise of someone clearing their throat snapped Alice's attention back to front and center, and she looked up to find Carnegie standing over her, his gaze as cold as humanely possible.

"The picture, please," he intoned, and the young woman could _feel_ the emotion held behind the stony face. Wordlessly, she handed it over, and could only watch as the man reverently slipped it into a shirt pocket and disappear into the recesses of the apartment, leaving her to only wonder at the photo's importance to him.

The two Big Daddies had been laid out side to side, Delta having finally slipped into unconsciousness. Amir carefully cracked each knuckle and his neck before slipping into a relatively clean pair of scrubs liberated from the Medical District years ago. A surgical mask was slipped over his fine-boned features , and gloves sat nearby, along with a tool belt filled with everything from screwdrivers to clamps to steel wool. A bucket of home brewed antiseptic sat with rags soaking in it, and threadbare towels and rags were laid out beneath the two Alpha Series. He anticipated things were going to get messy. The corpses of stripped Vending Machines, Turrets, and Rapture tech of all that usually littered his "workshop" had been brushed aside, and the jury-rigged lamps overhead had been coaxed into shining.

"Well," the young man muttered to himself, the faintest trace of his parents' accents present, "time to get to work."

Jack Ryan sat at the Formica counter of his home, Eleanor Lamb next to him, a mug of steaming earl grey tea in hand. The churning murky Hudson had performed admirably once again, and the bodies of the three Spetsnaz operatives he had returned home to find on his floors were gone, stripped of their valuables before being dumped in the river. Tears stained the young woman's face; the last few days had strained her to breaking point. Jack sighed and took a swig of his beer; the cheap swill was near tasteless going down, but after all that had happened, he needed a drink. The old Booze Hound Tonic let him process alcohol with inhuman efficiency helped him from getting completely senseless though.

Eleanor sniffled slightly. Her tears had long since dried. For all his experience with teenage girls, he was raising five of them after all, Jack Ryan found himself at a loss of what to do. None of his daughters had ever mercilessly butchered three men, then been crushed by conscience. It was a dilemma he chose to answer with more beer. If nothing else though, Rapture had instilled within him a sense of practicality, and so with a final gulp he emptied the bottle and turned to face the girl.

Eleanor's eyes were still puffy and red from tears as she gazed at Jack Ryan's haggard face. Incarceration by agents of the KGB had not been kind to him. Finally, he spoke.

"You did the right thing."

Eleanor glared at him, incredulously."Do you have any idea what it feels like to-"

"Yes, yes I do. And before you go on beating yourself up about this, we both know that those men would've killed everyone in this house without a second thought. So don't you think for a second that what you did wasn't justified."

Eleanor could only gape at him as she struggled to keep her voice down.

"How can you say that? How can you just, just brush this off, dump them in the river like junk and carry on like nothing's happened?" she demanded, voice harsh.

"Because I have something to fight for," Jack answered simply, nodding his head towards the stairs. "Taking a genuine human life is a terrible thing and nothing changes that, but when push comes to shove and its either them or my girls up there dying, I'd kill them without hesitation."

"So that's just it then," Eleanor spat, "you'd butcher anyone who threatens you?"

Jack shook his head, pushing the empty bottle away from him as he turned to better face the young woman. "My life ain't worth shit. I made my peace with that a long time ago. Rapure made sure of that."

"What do you mean?" his companion asked tentatively. With a sigh, Jack answered.

"Fontaine and Suchong played Dr. Frankenstein and cooked me up in a lab. Tenenbaum doesn't know how long I'll hold together." He shook his head wistfully, voice sharpening. "One of these days, I'm just gonna' start falling apart. Organ failure, mental breakdown; she doesn't know what or when, only that it's going to happen. So until then, I fight, I slave to keep things together, to make a better life for _them_."

Eleanor was silent. A million thoughts played through her mind, but above them all was guilt. Guilt not aimed at the men she had killed, but at the man before her. Guilt that she had ever questioned him, and that she had teased old pain back up to the surface of his tortured soul. She moved to apologize, but once again, Jack beat her to it.

"Hey, I'm sorry, kid," he said with a sigh, "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Go back to bed, you look exhausted."

Words dying in her throat, Eleanor could simply nod and started towards the stairs. She couldn't bring herself to make eye contact.

"Eleanor," Jack's voice came, softer this time. "Thank you. You saved my girls' lives tonight. Keep that in mind."

In silent misery, Eleanor Lamb ascended the stairs of the Ryan house and returned to a fitful sleep, nightmares of Rapture haunting her.

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Whistling a tuneless song, Orrin Oscar Lutwidge surveyed his surroundings with a mad glint in his eye. _Poor little Pawn gave up the address almost too easy,_ he thought to himself with a giggle. The door had been easy enough to pick, and the madman found himself in the dingy rooms of his Pawn's humble abode. His new toys from his skirmish with the Russians were tucked safely within the depths of his trench coat, the AK-47 strapped across his back. With a skip in his step he browsed the apartment, a grin spreading across his face when he found it.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he said to himself, a lopsided smile spreading across his mottled face to reveal rotten teeth. He traced the lines of yarn between pictures and newspaper clippings, grinning all the way until he found the one he was looking for.

"Oh Mr. Ryan," he hissed, "You, your happy little family, and I are going to have so much fun."

**End Chapter. Sorry for the delays folks. Reality must take precedence over fiction however. Please Review**


	27. Heartache

**Hello, hello folks. We're back, though I must apologize for the delay (on a side note, if any of you like the Fallout series, check out my Fallout 3 fic, Legacy). Anyways, let's get back to the action. Oh,ahem Disclaimer: I don't own the series, blah,blah,blah xoxoxo please don't sue.**

Soaked in sweat, blood, and machine grease, Amir took a step back and collapsed into his chair with a sigh of relief. The two Big Daddies had been stabilized, IV drips of Med Kits' healing fluids attached to them. Delta was laid out on a large mattress, but Sigma, the newcomer, had been restrained. It had taken all three of the men, plus Alice's inhuman strength, to move the metal man onto the weighted gurney, his limbs bound to the metal with heavy leather straps. He prayed it would be enough, or at the very least that Delta would wake up first. With a sigh, the young man brushed back his short cropped dark hair over sweat soaked brown brow, both parts of his heritage from his mother.

Amir's gaze once more turned to the equipment that had been recovered. He had laid out each of the weapons on a clean, or at least relatively clean by Rapture's standards, white sheet, and returned to the task of combing over their parts. Each tool of destruction was massive, huge weapons that even the strongest of men would struggle to use to effectively, and he had seen the Big Daddies wield them with ease. The young man shook his head in mulled awe. He had just started repairing the bindings on Delta's drill when it caught his eye. There, hanging loosely from a pocket in the metal man's suit, was a recorder. Amir quickly dismissed it as nothing, an invasion of privacy of a creature which could crush him flat. Curiosity ultimately got the better of him though.

With careful movements, he removed the recorder so as not to disturb the slumbering giant who held it. Idly, he flicked through the saved files, until the title of one of them froze his breath. Wordlessly, he walked back over to his chair and clicked the 'Play' button.

"Eleanor Lamb speaking.."

Her voice lilted and giggled just as he remembered it. For a moment, he was seven again.

In his mind's eye, he saw himself and Eleanor happily running down the halls, their clothes stained, smiles missing baby teeth. They plumbed Rapture's dark mysteries, children blissfully ignorant, in a time when a dark corridor was waiting adventure and Splicers were a bedtime boogeyman. Then, it had all ended. One day, Eleanor stopped showing up to play, her mother disappeared into the bowels of Persephone. The next week, on a family trip to Arcadia, he saw her. Flesh ghostly pale, eyes haunted, and deranged smile painted on her porcelain skin, this was not the Eleanor he knew. He ran towards her, nervous smile playing across his face, hoping for a game of tag or hide-and-seek to reaffirm that this phantom before him was still his friend. Yet the only response he received was her shrieking as he touched her, and his mother screaming hysterically as the mountain of metal before him gazed out evilly from its glass face and roared.

Amir gazed at Delta. He knew he should hate the creature. As a child, Delta had been his boogeyman, his nightmare. The demon which had stolen away his dearest friend. Time had brought wisdom though, and over the years he had learned the truth. Eleanor, his Eleanor, had been nothing more than a puppet, an innocent soul trapped in a fantasy and strung along by the horrors of modern medicine, and Delta, her watchdog, had been no better. The needle and the scalpel had made him a prisoner of his own armor, and stripped away the man within until naught but instinct and fury remained. Pity had diluted his hatred, but at his core, deep down, Amir knew he still despised the being before him, Eleanor' s wretched jailer. Still, fate had its cruel twists, and the beasts before him were the best chance of escape he was going to have.

With a sigh of resignation, Amir gave a bitter smile as Eleanor's voice died off. It was good to hear her again. To remember her. She was the last vestige of his old life that hadn't burnt away in the Civil War, and he clung to her memory fiercely. The bottle of Tate Merlot opened with a pop, and the young man drank alone as he waited for his patients to wake, listening to the voice of Eleanor Lamb.

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Alice paced nervously outside of the workshop's door, her mind weaving a thousand different nightmares of Delta's death.

"What's taking so long?" she demanded of Billy when the young man had the misfortune of walking past her.

Caught unprepared, the sandy haired youth fumbled for words. "I, I don't, I mean they were pretty banged up. Give Amir some time, he'll patch em' up no problem. He's the best."

"But I can't hear anything going on anymore," came her rebuttal, near tears. "It's so quiet. Nothings going on."

Billy sighed. "That's probably a good sign," he said, sitting down on a worn wooden bench leaning against the peeling wall. Alice joined him, sitting a fair bit closer than normal.

"What do you mean?" she questioned, red and puffy eyes reaching into his soul. Billy found himself tripping over his own words once more.

"Well, I mean, Amir is probably done and is relaxing. He likes taking time alone every now and then. 'Solace in solitude', or something like that, is what he once told me." He gave a slight, forced laugh. "He always was a bit more of a deep thinker than me. " The young man looked back at Alice in hopes his words had consoled, but found that the former Big Sister had stopped listening as soon as he had mentioned Amir being finished.

"I'm going to see him," she stated plainly, her tone absolute.

Before he could protest, she was one her feet and wrenching open the door, finding it, to her surprise, to be unlocked. With a mounting sense of dread, Billy hurried in after her, and cursed under his breath at what he saw.

Amir sat slumped in the leather chair he had adopted for his work space, a near dry bottle of wine in one hand, two more emptied ones on the floor, and an audio recorder in the other, a young woman's voice flowing out from it.

"Eleanor," the bleary eyed young man said to himself, "you're out there somewhere."

Alice was in a state of shock, unsure of what to do, but Billy could only swear once more. "Not again," he muttered, before he trudged over to where Amir sat and plucked the bottle from his friend's loose grip. "How long have you just been sitting here drinking?" Billy demanded.

Amir gave a mumbling protest and failed to give a cohesive answer. With a sigh, Billy hauled the smaller youth to his feet, and helped the slim, stumbling figure over to a cot, the audio recorder still clutched in one hand.

"Eleanor," he muttered one final time, before Billy pushed him back down to the bed, his head sinking into a pillow.

"Go to sleep, Dr. Booze," Billy said, sourly, exhaustion creeping into his voice. Placing the bottles aside, he took Amir's former seat, slouching down in it in time to see Alice walk slowly across the warped wooden floor to where Delta lay.

Her paces were slow, tentative. She felt as if in a dream, some strange world where everything had been reversed. Delta, her hero, her pillar of strength, mentor, protector, and _father_ all in one was one the ground, unmoving. The only indication that he still lived came from the low raspy sound of his breath, yet he appeared for all the world like one of the rotting, rusting Big Daddy corpses that littered Rapture. Scratches and bullet dents pitted his armor, and the stench of strong cleaning agents stung her nostrils, hints as to what had befell the scorch marks. The light in his porthole, the only window to a tortured soul, was dim, hardly aglow at all.

"Daddy," she rasped, tears trickling down her cheeks only to tumble form her pale flesh and splatter against the glass. She did not know for how long she sat there, thin arms wrapped around his blocky helmet. She wished she could tear the metal capsule away to look upon his true face, to comfort him and coo that all was well, that he would be fine. Yet when she found herself nigh unable to move, frozen in mourning until finally she pried away from Delta's prone form and stood up. Turning, she found herself looking at the tired visage of Billy Parson.

"He's going to be fine," he said, exhaustion working against his attempted persuasion. "Amir worked his magic on the two of them, and they'll be on their feet in no time."

Alice spared a glance at the form of the now slumbering youth, his tan skin and black hair a stark contrast to the white sheet of the cot. "What happened to him?" she questioned, wiping away the last of her tears.

Billy sighed. "We've all seen things down here that no one has a right to, but during the Civil War, he had the worst, I think. He," the young man faltered, shaking his head. "Look, it's not my right to tell the story. He'll tell you when he's ready. But every now and then, he tries to lose himself, tries to drink away his sorrows." Billy shook his head. "There ain't near enough liquor down here for that, but it doesn't stop him from trying. Everyone copes a different way. With him we just have to make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

Alice didn't know what to say. All around her, the impervious facades these men wore were falling, crumbling away to reveal broken spirits. Even Billy, who she had adored from afar on their trek through the market, seemed less dreamy and more haggard as he sat slumped in the chair. For the first time in her short span of consciousness, she saw things not as a child, the mirage of a gallant quest to escape the clutches of hell burning away to bitter ash. It was no quest, but a instead a desperate struggle, a clawing, grim fight that consume its warriors just as surely as it had the Splicers they battled. Rapture's only true escape laid in insanity. Insanity or death. And for the first time, as she cried, she cried not only for herself.

**End Chapter. A bit brief, I know, I know. Please Review. Until next time folks.**


	28. The Ghost in the Machine

**Disclaimer: Y'all know the drill. Why do I even bother with these anyway? {Potential lawsuits} Ah yes, that's why. I don't own nothing but the story and my own characters, folks. Though you should know that by now. Well, you didn't come here for witty monologues, so let's head to the main attraction, shall we?**

**IMPORANT: For best enjoyment of this chapter, some understanding of the events of the Minerva's Den DLC is recommended. It's a great addition to Bioshock 2, and I highly recommend it to any fan.**

"Charles," he voice lilted across the smoldering ruins. Charles Milton Porter tore himself from the rubble, his suit tattered and stained, his hands bleeding ribbons. He had dug through the wreckage for... numbers were foggy, his mind deadened as if just awaking from deep sleep. _That doesn't matter,_ he thought, joyously, clambering over the remains of their townhouse, rushing towards his love. Through all the fury of the London Blitz, all of Hitler's madness and bombings, she was _here_, she was _alive._

"Pearl," the man cried, his voice coarse, choked from the dust and ash, tears of happiness cutting hot wet tracks through the dirt caked on his face. "You're safe! Oh thank God, you're safe!"

She stood resplendent atop the mass of shattered wood, concrete, and brick, a coy smile on her lips. Lavender petticoats stood against chocolate skin, a wide brimmed straw woven sun hat perched delicately on her head, hemming in tumbling curls and standing defiant to London's smoke filled sky.

"Charles," she called, ever smiling. Her love scaled mountains of rubble, slipping, tumbling, and bleeding all the way. Yet for every step he took, she seemed only farther and farther away, his feet like lead, betraying him each stride as dark skin met jagged ruins and poured out crimson blood.

"No," he whispered, falling once more. "No, not again, never again!" With a roar of triumph, the battered and bloodied man rose to his feet and charged over the final hillock of the hellish, burnt out London, finding his love and taking hold of her hand. It crumbled to ash in his fingers, the wind whirling in through skeletal structures and blowing her away, bit by bit, like sand in a windstorm.

"No," he whispered, his voice a dry rattle as the delicate hand he had clutched crumbled to nothingness, then her arm, and further and further on, branching out like some vile infection. Her fine clothes withered to cinders, the hat she had loved so gone in a cloud of dust. A halo of wild black locks unfurled like a sail in the wind, freed of their prison, only to slowly smolder away to nothingness.

"No.."

It was his mantra, a hoarse word in terrified disbelief, a prayer to make it all stop. He wanted to hold her, to feel the warmth of her skin, see the joy sparkle in her eyes as it had on their wedding day, hear the sweetness of her voice in his ears once more. With a cry he moved to clutch her to him, a sweeping embrace to pull her close and never let go, put his arms swept only through dust, scattering her image like ripples in a pond until even her face was melting away to ash. The coy smile on rich lips became no more than a memory, dust in the wind. Soft brown eyes lost their spark and dwindled to embers, then chilled to grey ash. In a heartbeat, she was gone, and Charles Milton Porter fell to his knees. Around him, London burned.

Big Ben was a distant pillar of fire, the blackened ash of homes and dreams and families choking him as he surveyed the destruction. Air raid sirens clanged in the distance, only to be drowned out by thunder like the anger of gods, the sky splitting and a black rain pouring out. Wind whipped around him, tearing at his clothes , chilling him to his bones, and a flash of lightning blinded him. He clamped shut his eyes, shielding his face, and a moment later he could not breathe.

Dark waters enveloped him, dashing him against the rocks and ruins as it drew him ever downwards, swirling and splashing about like water circling a drain. Torrents of bubbles filled his vision, the rushing roar of the water deafening him. He tried to scream, but had no voice , his shriek muted by the waters and joining the cascade of bubbles. Desperate, the man clutched at his throat, his lungs burning within. Far below, in the distant deep, lights shimmered like some long lost Atlantis, and a moment later it was all over.

He crashed to the floor, sputtering and coughing, vomiting up seawater. Yet when he moved to rise, he moved with limbs that were not his own. Great gauntleted hands broad as shovels pushed off of the tile floor, metal boots screeching as they slid. Slowly the beast rose, the man within helpless save as a spectator. Charles Milton Porter thrashed and screamed within the suit that both sheltered and smothered him, his world hemmed in by a window of glass and tarnished metal. The beast stood on its feet, in the tiled expanse beneath the shadow of some great machine, pipes and wires entering and exiting it. A simple sign in embellished script proclaimed it _"The Thinker_", and it hummed with a life that was dimming and unnatural to begin with.

"So, is this what I dies for, Sigma?"

The beast whirled around to face the diminutive frame of Reed Wahl, his accented voice heavy with contempt. Bullet holes riddled his withered, pale body, blood leaking from him like a sieve, staining the floors with a steady drip. Wahl ranted on, unperturbed by his broken and bleeding flesh; a corpse that spoke, and mocked death.

"You took this great creation, this marvel of a machine, and wasted it on _that?_" he accused, stepping forward, the blood pouring out. As he stepped from the shadows, more wounds revealed themselves. One arm hung limp and useless, an a harpoon speared straight through his stomach.

"The Thinker's potential was endless, yet you perverted it. You wanted something human, something that could _feel." _Wahl spat, the putrid wad of gory spittle striking the beast in its chest. "A machine need not feel, and machine need not be human. A machine needs only to serve! You took the greatest fruit of Rapture's genius and spoiled it, clutching it to yourself like a child, all because you couldn't let go." The corpse gave a toothy smile.

The beast rumbled, stomping the ground and roaring. Within the metal heart of it Charles Milton Porter wept bitter tears, rage mounting inside of him. Wahl continued, unabashed.

"You just couldn't let go of her, Charles. You couldn't move on like any normal man. No, your true motives behind the thinker were made amply clear. You made a ghost, Charles. Fed a soul to a machine, and expected to get a heart out of the bargain."

The corpse laughed. It was a hollow and bitter, soaked in sadistic glee. Wahl's ashen face turned serious, his glassy eyes given an ominous glint.

"The Thinker is a machine of mind, not heart, Charles. The Thinker knows. It knows that you will not leave this place. You are weak, Sigma," the dead man hissed. " To weak to save Pearl, too weak to move on, and too weak to save yourself."

With a roar, the metal beast and the man within struck as one, slamming the dead man into the wall with a wet splat. With a grotesque pop, Charles Milton Porter, now the master of his own motions, wrenched the harpoon from his one time friend and cracked it across his skull. The corpse of Reed Wahl crumpled beneath the blow and tumbled to the ground like a ragdoll. His head was cracked across the temple, and grey and bloody paste leaking from its side. Still, Wahl pulled back thin, pale lips into a smile.

"The Thinker," he sputtered, coughing up blood to stain his yellowed and rotten teeth, "The Thinker knows, you will not escape, Mr. Porter."

Savagely, the man within the machine struck again, and Wahl continued undeterred.

"The Thinker knows, Mr. Porter," he sounded, his thin voice reverberating.

With a final roar, Charles Milton Porter, Subject Sigma, a thrall to Rapture no more, brought down his heavy boot upon the head of the screaming corpse. With a crunch, Reed Wahl was no more, yet the voice returned.

"Mr. Porter," it demanded forcefully, a woman's voice fringed with a curt German accent, foreign yet familiar at the same time.

"Mr. Porter, it is time to wake up."

Like glass breaking, the crystalline image around him buckled and then shattered, thrusting him from his land of dark fantasies into an even grimmer reality. With a roar, the man snapped opened his eyes and beheld the world through his glass window to it, bellowing and straining against the bonds that held him, challenging any and all who dared defy him. Subject Sigma lived, and Rapture would not hold him.

**End Chapter. This was a fun one to write, and I hope it just as enjoyable to read. Now that we have two Big Daddies mucking around in Rapture, what will the future hold? Tune in next week (or whenever I get around to writing it) to find out! Please review, and thanks to all those who do.**


	29. Motivation

**Disclaimer:...snore...What? Oh yah...Yah I don't own any of this, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.**

** Many thanks to all you reviewers (you know who you are). Your feedback is motivation to keep this going. It has come to my attention however that things have gotten a bit confusing in this epic fan fic over the past year (dear God a whole year? I really need to get a more productive hobby), and as suchI think it is high time for another quick review. By all means skip this if you've been able to follow my rambling and at times incoherent tale, but if not, ahem:**

** Following the events of Bioshock 2 (good Subject Delta, i.e. spares all three "bosses"), Delta is separated from Eleanor in Sofia Lamb's final act of revenge, sinking back down to Rapture where he is revived via Vita-Chamber (man those things come in handy)and, enraged, sets about trying to reunite with his former Little Sister yet again. (Note, I will not be summing up the plot of Bioshock2 for you guys, go out and play the game folks. Plot summary can be found here: **_**.com/wiki/Bioshock_2 **_**). He soon begins experiencing the effects of the breaking of his pair bond however, as his body repeatedly tries to shut itself down. Delta seeks and acquires Dr. Tenebaum's aid in addressing this problem, and the two begin working together towards escaping Rapture. Stanley Poole and Grace Holloway join in their efforts, with Grace holding residual resentment towards Delta, and Delta fury at Poole for his part in both Eleanor's condition and his own. Tenenbaum sends Delta out to free the last of Lamb's Little Sisters before they can leave, and over the course of this defeats several other Big Daddies and Big Sisters. Yay violence! One Sister recognizes him however, as Delta saved her when she was a Little Sister, and as such Delta is able to pacify and eventually cure her. This cured Big Sister, Alice, becomes Delta's ally and companion, though remains of her experiences as a big Sister continue to haunt her. Also, her name lets me slip in tons of references to Alice in Wonderland. Yay lazy author! These two merrily cavort around Rapture looking for the last Little Sisters, and end up encountering a group of survivors, un-Spliced, who have survived since the Rapture Civil War and have a past with Tenenbaum. The five are Billy Parson and his mother, Gloria, Amir (Eleanor's childhood friend), Becky Langford (daughter of the first Bioshock's Julie Langford), and Michael Carnegie, the leader, whose past has not been revealed fully (think kiddies, where in the game did we see the name Carnegie?) Delta, Alice, and Carnegie's group enter into a tenuous alliance to find the last Little Sister, and to join Tenenbaum in the escape. They find the final Little Sister in the care of a mysterious Alpha Series, and this mysterious stranger and Delta engage in an epic battle (**_**more**_** violence!) with Delta emerging as the battered victor, and his opponent being revealed to be Subject Sigma (main character of the Minerva's Den DLC, plot summary can be found here: **_**.com/wiki/Minerva%27s_Den_(DLC)**_** )Delta hauls Sigma's and his own broken and bleeding body back to Carnegie's base where Amir patches them up. That's it, in a nutshell.**

** Meanwhile, on the surface, Eleanor arrives and makes contact with Jack Ryan, the protagonist of the first Bioshock, who has been living peacefully in New York City with the five cured Little Sisters he escaped with, now his adoptive daughters. Though initially skeptical, Jack takes them in and starts trying to gather information to help them. Meanwhile (again) the U.S. government is planning a naval mission to investigate a mysterious stretch of Atlantic Ocean, one where vessels have been disappearing for years, and are making connections between it and the so called Great Vanishing, where thousands of peoples disappeared after WWII (where ever could they have gone? Underwater utopia perhaps?) Also identifies are important figures in this mystery, such as Jack Ryan, and the illusive Orrin Oscar Lutwidge (This guy is from the Something in the Sea promotional campaign, kind of cool background, **_**.com/wiki/Orrin_Oscar_Lutwidge**_**). Jack goes to the abandoned home of Mark Meltzer (Okay, you guys should know who he is from the game) and finds that the man's notes have already been mostly stolen, though does find some helpful information. However, he is attacked by a mysterious figure and barely escapes. This figure knows much of the Rapture conspiracy from what he has pieced together, and his plans include Jack and his family (insert ominous music here). Happy family bonding stuff at the Ryan household (yawn). Later, the mysterious man tracks down Orrin Oscar Lutwidge, and it is revealed that he used to be part of Lutwidge's secret organization, the International Order of Pawns. The Pawn demands to know where Rapture is, though Lutwidge quickly turns the tables on him. The Pawn barters knowledge of Jack Ryan for both his life and aid in finding Rapture. The two are subsequently captured by unknown assailants. Jack's home is invaded and he too is captured. The three find themselves in the hands of a Soviet special forces team, which has infiltrated the U.S to find information about Rapture (and you know you can't have a good Cold War thriller without some old fashioned U.S vs. U.S.S.R. shadow wars). The interrogations are cut short however when U.S troops arrive to root out the infiltrators, and in the ensuing chaos Lutwidge and Jack individually escape. The Pawn isn't so lucky. Lutwidge leaves him a parting gift for his perceived treachery (yay violence!) and the Pawn is taken into the custody of U.S forces. Oh and Eleanor's feeling all down and sad about killing people and stuff. And that's that.**

** So, there you go. Confused yet? If not, let me know and I'll do my best to confound you. Oooooookay, so now on to the short main feature. Blah.**

With a low groan, the Pawn drifted into a foggy consciousness. A low, constant beep sounded distantly, his vision blurred. Dimly he was aware of the heady aroma of fine cigars drifting past his nose. The man struggled to move, but found himself bound to the gurney in which he found himself. He saw and felt bandages swaddled about everywhere. His arms, his chest, his forehead; all were smothered in the white, though the yellow and red of dried blood and pus stained it in many spots.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. Now let's get down to business."

The slow, Southern drawl lilted in from his left, and, straining, the Pawn located the cigar's owner. A well trimmed salt-and-pepper beard framed a hard chiseled face, deep set wrinkles framing a slightly crooked nose, while one eye stared out blindly, a mass of scar surrounding it like a grim halo. The casual words had dropped from a mouth drawn around the cigar. The man let loose a thick cloud of smoke before carefully balancing his beloved cigar between his fingers. He took great care to keep ash from his pristine black suit, and with his other hand fished out a pair of black leather gloves. Then, in an almost conversational tone, he addressed his prisoner once again.

"You know, pal, me and you have something in common. Right now neither of us exist. So, hypothetically speaking of course, all kinds of nasty things could happen to you tonight, and not a soul would know. Makes a man think, doesn't it?"

The Pawn struggled to find his voice as the man in the suit leisurely twirled his cigar in an ashtray resting on a side table. The bedridden man's eyes flicked about, drinking in his surroundings as he scrambled for something to say. He was in a hospital, or a medical facility of some sort at least. Everything around him was sparse, sterile, and clinical. His bearded captor had risen to his feet and strolled over to the bedside. The Pawn noticed for the first time the IV stand next to him, and the line feeding into his own arm. With one final moment to collect himself, the man stowed his trepidation, and did his best to quash the shake he knew would accompany his voice.

"What's the matter, G-man?" the Pawn asked coyly, though the croak of his voice almost defeated the effect. He tried to smirk, but cringed as a dim bolt of pain shot through his face, but mellowed. A quick glance at the bag feeding his IV drip turned up the name 'morphine', and a cocktail of other drugs. _Well there's one mystery solved,_ the man though. He spoke again, working out a sneer to accompany it. "This Uncle Sam's best accommodations? I'm hurt. Have the IRS send me a refund for all the taxes because this is - ahh!"

He bit back a scream as the bearded man thrust the smoldering tip of his cigar into the flesh of his forearm. The beeps from the machine on his right quickened; a heart rate monitor, he deduced. the man in the suit donned his gloves; he looked annoyed.

"So you're gonna be one of those little shits, are you?" he asked sourly, spiting into the new burn wound as if trying to remove a bad aftertaste. "I know your type, kid," he went on, mouth twisting into a grim smile. "You think suave smartass act can get you out of this. That some balls and bravado will get you through it?" He gave a chuckle. "You'll go quick, kid. I can see it your eyes. Panic. Absolute terror. Plus a low threshold for pain. That machine over there ain't helping your case either." It was true. His heart rate had spiked, the beeps coming ever faster.

"Wh-what do you want?" came the Pawn's shaken answer. He struggled to compose himself. _Calm, cool, collected. Come on, damn it. He's no worse than Lutwidge._ The mere thought of the madman and his knife sent shivers done his spine.

His captor was in no mood for games. "Don't start with me, boy. You know what we want. The Commies, the crazy son of a bitch who carved you up like the Thanksgiving turkey. And all you've got on that Atlantis you've been chasing."

"What makes you think I know anything? I was just a bystander, that nutcase seized me as a -"

"Cut the crap." The cigar had reappeared in his hand. "Nobodies don't get turned into the human billboard. Spill it."

The Pawn kept his face level, and met his captor's glare. "You know, you'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

The man in the suit cocked his head to side slightly , and rolled his eyes. "We might just need to curb that acid tongue of yours boy, cause you just don't know when to shut up." His slight smile returned then. "Of course, I've always found the flyswatter to be the most effective of all, so we'll start there.

The Pawn felt the color drain from his face as the man fetched a small metal briefcase and snapped it open. A myriad of blades and needles glinted in the dark. The man sat back down and set intently to work, his eyes glued to the case as his hands flew. He spoke but did not meet his victim's horrified eyes. "Well, I'm thinking for starters well cut that morphine drip you have there, let you fully appreciate what the lunatic did to you. Then of course if that doesn't work, well step outside for a spell, start hooking you up to a car battery in some very tender places. Now if you still want to play the hero, well," the man held up a well worn pair of metal cutters. The sharpened hollow the scissor like tool's blades formed seemed perfectly fit for fingers, toes, and other similar shaped appendages.

The Pawn balked, and the man in the suit noticed, with a wolfish smile.

"Of course we could always start with Daddy's little helper here, and work our way backwards..." he let his voice trail off, and his prisoner found his throat bone dry.

Silence reigned, and the suited man sprang to the bedside and slid the cutters around the Pawn's middle finger. "I'll take your silence as a yes," he growled, and slowly began to squeeze.

Blood began to trickle out from his skin, and the Pawn cracked. "Alright, I'll talk!" he squealed, voice cracking. "Get those damned things off of me and I'll talk!"

The bearded man smirked. "I knew you would. Now was that really all that hard?"

**End Chapter. Brief, I know. My apologies. I hope the summary helped anyone who was lost in my tangled narrative. Questions, comments, concerns, and reviews welcome. Feedback motivates to keep this going. Until next time folks.**


	30. Ignorance is Bliss

**Disclaimer: insert witty commentary here I own nothing. Back to the action, folks.**

Eleanor Lamb awoke after a restless night to another breakfast feast prepared by Jack and Liz. The little girls finally seemed to be adjusting, youth easing the transition, and the young woman swore she had even spotted a few tentative smiles amongst them. When all were at the table, Jack made his announcement.

"I have a few errands to run later. Groceries, for one. Didn't quite plan on feeding a crowd." The man gave a tired sigh. "Liz, Marie, I'm going to need some extra hands to help with those." he turned to face the remaining girls; the raven haired Masha and Katie, bickering as ever, Claire, fussing with her hair, and Eleanor, silent as the grave as she picked at her cereal. "You think you guys can man down the fort while we're gone?" The four looked up at the sound of his voice, faces blank.

"What was that, Dad?" Katie questioned, brushing a stray strand of hair back behind her ear.

Jack rubbed his temples. "This is going to be a long day," he muttered.

ooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo ooooo

Delta sat in the Parson apartment, Carnegie's stronghold, staring out a time stained window at Rapture's corpse. It had been a restless night for him. Mind and movements slowed and slurred, he had awoken within Amir's makeshift lab turned hospital aching and groaning. With clinical detachment, the slim youth had explained the proceedings; what had been fixed, what had been tweaked. The Big Daddy noted the faint rasp of his voice, and his bloodshot eyes; evidently, the doctor had not slept well either. Nodding silently, the Big Daddy had left, and began his drift through Carnegie's realm.

Amir had directed him to the room Alice had taken. He stepped through a large hole in the wall and into the adjacent apartment; Carnegie and the other survivors had expanded when needed, it seemed. A few turns and strides later, he found it, and with all the gentleness he could muster the metal man slowly opened the door.

She laid there, tangled amongst threadbare covers, clad in what had been no doubt donations from Becky, the first plain clothes she had worn in over a decade. Delta looked out over her, this girl who adored him, who had thrust him back into the role of protector, and he could not help but feel guilt. Lamb had said it best to him. Who would force a mirror, on a man with no face?

He, who knew both lives, the mindless bliss of ignorant obedience and the agonies of choice and will, had thrust the same paradox that plagued him upon another. To walk both paths, to shift from thrall to master of one's own destiny was as much a curse as it was a gift. To feel the weight of one's actions where once there was none, to feel doubt and remorse where once there was bliss, was nothing short of torture. To bitterly remember mistakes, and wonder how things may have been different pressed upon the soul and pained the mind. For all the triumph that choice had brought, for all the little graces it gave, the man within Subject Delta could not help but feel some small part of himself grieve, pining for the days when things had been so simple, when all the world came in black and white, and not just shades of grey. Delta knew this curse. He knew it better than anyone who ever walked above or beneath the waves, and perhaps better than anyone who ever would. Yet he had thrust this same agonizing conflict upon someone else. Upon Alice.

Alice, who looked upon him with eyes full of wonder and pain, who trusted him so absolutely, who clung to him like a drowning man to driftwood yearned for answers he could not give, answers he did not have. Her pain, her struggle, was so clear to everyone around her, so vocal and raw, and to know that he had brought it about, that his "gift" of free will had led only to sorrow, broke his heart and chilled his soul. Ignorance was bliss, and free will, perdition.

The Big Daddy's gaze fell upon the second, smaller form that laid in the bed, snuggled up against Alice. The Little Sister slept with a smile of the ignorant, a denizen of a world made of satin and roses. He knew, he had seen it. To rip a child from that innocence, to show her bloodshed and pain, that was mercy? That was the path of the benevolent protector, a liberator from paradise?

Delta turned away from the girls, so at peace in their sleep, only for new guilt to bubble up within him. Shame rose up against his thoughts. The Little Sister had a family beyond Rapture, a life she had been torn from, and whose memories remained within her. Alice had choice, she could escape her fate as Lamb's puppet, break free of her bonds and live a normal life. Not all of Rapture's survivors had had their fates sealed. Not all of them were him.

Wordlessly, the metal man gently lifted the little girl from her bed, her arms instinctually wrapping around him, her smile spreading.

"Daddy," she murmured peacefully, thumb drifting towards her mouth. She could not have been more than five or six, her brown curls tangled, skin white as porcelain. Slowly Delta strode from the room, his passenger dozing peacefully. The Big Daddy found a vent built into wall, and gently roused the sleeping girl. A blinding light flashed, a new pain was born, and the metal man slinked off, not able to look the girl's cherubic face in the eye. So he sat, nearly crushing the moldering couch on which he was perched, staring out at the bones of paradise now rotted to a nightmare, where broken souls clung to shadows of life, eking out a despondent existence. He gazed out at the world into which had just brought an innocent child, and he grieved.

oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooooo ooooooooooooo ooooooooooooo

Sigma roared to life with a fury he had not known for years, fire in his blood and rage in his heart, tearing against the heavy straps and bonds that held him down. He thrashed and he raged, bellowed and roared, but the straps held, and he did nothing but rouse his captors. He heard the footsteps approach, boots rapping off the warped hardwood, and prepared himself for the worst. Splicers, madmen, Lamb's lackeys; none would stop him. He prepared for the worst, and found his mind blank when a thin built young man entered his field of vision. His complexion was poor, pale as anyone's would be from years without the sun, and with a hint of a tan of somewhere exotic. Skin aside, he was...normal. No bulging tumors, no sagging flesh. No hint of ADAM addiction. The young man surveyed him with a cursory nod.

"Good, you're awake. Look like I'm not a half bad surgeon after all."

He was impersonal, detached, his eyes flitting across every inch of the Big Daddy's suit with a craftsman's eye. Sigma growled and struggled against his bonds. The young man frowned slightly.

"Ah yes, the matter of your current, uh, situation. You see after that first meeting, we weren't quite sure how you'd react to waking up here." The youth raised a brow, surveying his captive's struggles. "I see our foresight proved prudent."

Sigma raged once more, but the young man merely rolled his eyes.

"Alright buddy. You can rant and rave, and I can leave you here all by your lonesome, or" he pulled over a small radio, setting it on a stool by the Big Daddy's feet, "You can shut the hell up and listen for a few moments. We have a mutual friend who can explain all this." There came a burst of static, and a familiar voice flooded the room.

"Hello Herr Sigma. I wish all this hadn't been necessary, but I am glad to hear that you are well."

Tenenbaum. The Big Daddy reeled in surprise. He had not been in contact with the doctor since the battle with Wahl. His radio had been shattered, and at his victory, when Wahl stood broken at his feet and the code of the Thinker had been copied, she had not shown up. He had found himself alone, once more, wandering through the halls of a museum to a life he had lost, a life he could never get back. A love he could never get back...

He had just escaped the Den, and begun gathering more ADAM for the journey to find her when a new Alpha had attacked him. The battle slowly returned to him, a tableau of anger and bloodlust. Above it all stood a single memory, a simple triangle, etched into the gauntlet of the creature he thought would become his killer. Delta. A memory from a life forgotten rose forth for a single moment of clarity. Delta. Delta had stood over him, thrashing his form within an inch of his life. Delta would pay.

In the blink of an eye, Sigma was back to the present, and Tenebum's voice was continued.

"...all a great misunderstanding. Herr Sigma, when I could no longer reach you, I," the old German doctor faltered, "I assumed the worst. I moved on to other plans. You must understand. Had I known you were alive, I would have met you at the rendezvous. But now an even greater opportunity presents itself."

The metal man's curiosity was piqued.

"You are among friends right now." The Big Daddy snorted; his new "friends" had a strange idea of hospitality. "Michael Carnegie and his people are allies, as well as Herr Delta." Delta. Sigma felt his blood run cold at this. Delta was _here_. He stretched against his bonds, growling.

"Herr Sigma!" Tenenbaum's voice held steel in it, and the Big daddy was silenced. "Herr Sigma," the doctor's static riddled voice repeated, softer now, "I know that you two have not had the best of first meetings, but you must work together for us to escape. Please."

The man within the machine was silent as he pondered. His anger was potent, but reason tempered it. Tenenbaum had not lied to him yet, and there came safety in numbers. With a great rumbling sigh, the Big Daddy nodded his acquiescence, and his captor relayed this to Tenenbaum. The doctor breathed her relief. "Thank you, Herr Sigma. Amir here will release you. We will meet face to face soon."

With that, the radio died, and Sigma was left with his captor, Amir. The youth gave Sigma one look before turning and opening a nearby door.

"Delta," he called out, "get in here! I'm not doing this alone!"

There came a low rumbling call in response, one that Sigma knew too well. Heavy footsteps preceded him, and a few seconds later, Subject Delta stood in the doorway. Sigma felt his blood boil, but held it in check; petty revenge was nothing next to escape from this hell.

With his silent guardian standing watch, Amir undid the thick straps that held Subject Sigma, hands shaking as he went. When at last the final one fell away with a muffled thump, Amir jumped back, and Sigma rose. The prisoner rose from his the operating table and stood his full height, glaring down at his former captor. He could see a sheen of cold sweat form on Amir's forehead, and the young man swallowed hard.

"I'll just let you two work things out then," he said, with a quiver in his voice, before gracefully retreating. The two Big Daddies were left alone as the door slammed upon Amir's exit.

Silence reigned, the two metal men carefully surveying each other. Sigma noted dents and scratches in his opponent's armor with approval; he had not let Delta win easily. Memories of that fight brewed rage within his soul. He wanted to lash out, to fight, to crush the creature before him, but he could not. Delta's visage was as blank and inhuman as his own, yet the man who had been C.M. Porter could _feel_ the pain that this creature before him held. It was his pain. The agony of discovering a life lost to a needle and a scalpel, the guilt, the pain, the cold hard fury; he knew it all. And so did the man before him.

As much as he wanted to, Subject Sigma could not bring himself to fight, to summon the forces of nature in the palm of his hand and utterly destroy this place. For all the hate he felt towards Delta, he knew he had found a brother, someone with their own pain and guilt. Someone with their own Pearl. The thought of his dream, of her face crumbling to ashes, sent a shiver down Sigma's spine. His rage died.

Delta extended one hand, slowly and uneasily, and with as much distaste as the one who offered it Sigma accepted the handshake. Two iron grips met, two giants silently vying for dominance over one another. Tension built upon grudging respect was palpable; both were masters of body language. The two released their death grip with the same slow deliberation with which it had begun. It was not the most comforting of greetings, but a handshake was a handshake. Delta gave a low grumble, and Sigma answered in turn. The feelings were mutual. They would cooperate, but they wouldn't be happy about it.

**End Chapter. Please review etc. Sorry for the gap, but I have a number of projects rolling right now, so I'm finding it a bit difficult to give attention to all of them. Sea of Broken Dreams is taking fairly high priority though, never fear. look forward to hearing from you guys. Until next time, jschneids signing off.**


	31. Downtime

**Disclaimer: I own nada, and I haven't since this whole thing started. Holy crap. Thirty chapters? (I'm not counting that author's note. Actually, let's keep that on the down low. Turns out that kind of thing is now against the author terms of conduct. Oops) Anyways, A great big thank you to all you loyal fans. You guys have made writing this a blast, and am I'm glad you've been enjoying it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. (Also, on a side note, you are to be commended for putting up with my fickle and snarky interjections.)**

** Anywho, back to the good, stuff, what you guys came here (and hopefully will continue to come here) for. Fresh out of the oven, a new chapter! Mmmmm, you can taste the salt water and despair! Enjoy.**

Billy Parson awoke from fitful sleep atop the sordid mattress he claimed as his bed. Dirty as it may have been, it was still a valued possession; in Rapture, a bed devoid of bloodstains, sea water, feces, or urine was a rare thing indeed. The youth tried, and failed, to suppress the memory of the apartment he had taken it from, and the fetid corpse that swung from a rotten rope nearby. He shivered slightly as he shrugged off thin covers and stumbled to his feet. Listlessly he slid into his regular clothes, laying the armored apparel over his regular garments. Rapture demanded vigilance, always.

Prickly stubble had begun to creep back upon his square jaw; he needed to shave. Heavy bags sat beneath pensive eyes as he met his own gaze in a dirtied mirror. It was with a sudden realization that Billy Parson saw that he had become his father.

It had just been too tempting to resist. The audio files of both Big Daddies had sat on the workbench, unguarded, after both Amir and Alice had both gone to sleep, and curiosity had gotten the better of him. then he found it. A portrait of his father, gaunt and distant, and the final testimony of a man the shadow of who he once was. The young man had forced himself to listen to it, his father's final, half sane words, an account to the horrors of the prison Persephone, over and over again. There was a kind of solace, a finality, in finally knowing the fate of the man he barely knew, yet his ultimate end was horrifying. In his heart, Billy Parson knew that he could never let his mother hear it. Gloria Parson consoled herself with the warm delusion that her husband, her soul mate, had expired peacefully, clinging to the threadbare hope that despite his disappearance, despite the wild rumors, perhaps, just perhaps, her dearest love had found peace.

This tape burnt that pleasant lie to ashes, and the young man knew his mother, already so quiet, so sorrowful, would not be able to live with it. Yet, the simple machine and its recordings of a man who had lost touch with reality, so meaningless and aged, still chilled him to his core. Billy Parson looked in the mirror, and saw the same haunted eyes that his father possessed, the same insurmountable sorrow and pain that haunted his very soul. For the first time in nearly a decade, ever since the day his mother had come home in tears, trying to make the small child understand his father was gone, Billy Parson had allowed himself to hope, to believe that they could escape this place with the help of newfound allies. The tape, a simple, seconds long recording, had brought it all crashing down.

The recognition of the inevitable, of the scars upon his soul that this place would impart, left Billy Parson hollow and listless, and with one final look in the mirror, he departed the room with eyes downcast and face dour.

oooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo

It had taken assurances from both Amir, Carnegie, and Tenenbaum via radio that the Little Sister he had arrived with was safe, but, at last, Sigma had calmed himself and the meeting could proceed. The two Big Daddies stood, confident in the fact that the battered wooden chairs had little chance of supporting their weight. The two stood across from each other, glares of distrust masked behind impassive glass. Seating on one side of the table was provided by one long bench, which Billy Parson trudged over to and sat himself at. Alice entered next, and she cast a worried gaze at the man she believed her father before seating herself next to Billy. The young Mr. Parson subtly scooted away.

The rest of the group quickly assembled. A radio had been set up on the table to contact Tenenbaum. With a sigh, Carnegie flipped the switch, and the voice of the German doctor arrived with a burst of static.

"Michael? Are you all assembled?"

The tired man gave his acquiescence.

"Good, good. Now, thanks to the work of Herr Delta, und Herr Sigma, the last of Lamb's Little Sisters have been cured, and without her controlling the Splicers, we can escape this place."

Carnegie raised a brow at this. "And just how do you propose we do that, Doc? This place is still crawling with crazies, and Lamb made it a point of seizing any working transport she could find."

"There are enough parts and wrecks for us to repair one of those that does remain, of that I am certain. However, there is another problem that we will encounter."

"Let me guess," came Amir's quick voice, "the torpedoes?"

The Doctor seemed taken aback slightly, "Why, yes, actually. The security systems are automated, and Lamb implemented a full lock down. No one in or out of the city. If we cannot find a way to reverse that, then it will all be for naught."

Amir seemed ever so slightly smug. "I believe I have a solution to that. Over the years, we've acquired a number of records and blueprints, and several of them reference a master control station to be located in Andrew Ryan's office in Hephaestus." Carnegie and the others were giving him queer looks now; evidently this was news to them. The youth responded with a shrug. "What? It seemed pointless information before, what with Lamb's Splicers crawling all over it. But with her gone, and them scattered, I'm sure we'll be able to take it, and from there deactivate the security."

Silence hung in the air as this new development was weighed.

"That," Tenebuam began, "that could very well work. Outside of that, our only other options are destroying the torpedo launchers themselves, which is...impractical, to say the least. Very well. One matter remains for us to discuss then."

Carnegie leaned forward, brows cocked. "And what might that be, Doc?"

"We would all be safer, and more efficient, if we were to operate from a central base. Namely, this station. It is fortified against all attack, and a far easier place to launch an escape than Midtown is."

Carnegie's weathered face furrowed. "Let me get this straight, you want us to _move_?"

The doctor heard his tone, and sighed. "In a word, yes," she answered.

The request did not sit well with the assembled group. Carnegie frowned, dour, before answering. "That's a tall order, Doc. You're asking us to put all our trust in a place we've never seen, and leave behind the place that's saved our asses for nearly a decade." The steel in his voice was discouraging. "Still," the man started again, tone lighter now, "you've got a point. Safety in numbers. We need a bit of time to choose though."

With that, the man shut the radio off and faced his companions, massaging his temples, his stony face twisted with irritation.

"Well, what's your take on all this people? This ain't a dictatorship , now give me some feedback and quit staring slack jawed like a bunch of sheep. Talk to me."

His voice was coarse and harsh, and cut through the silence. Becky was the first to answer.

"I say we go for it," she announced, looking out across the table, eyes daring anyone who would challenger her. "This is probably the only real chance we're going to get to get out this hell. I'm not going to pass it up."

Carnegie met her accusatory glare with stone faced indifference. "Duly noted," he said, dryly. "Anyone else?"

Delta followed the man's gaze as he looked out at his people. Billy Parson appeared unusually sullen, the energetic youth that he usually was nowhere to be found. His mother Gloria was cowed and silent as was her norm, looking for all the world like a weak breeze would knock her over, bring her to tears, or, most likely, both. Amir was silent as well , seemingly lost in his own world as he hastily scrawled out calculations and stratagems upon a yellowed square of paper. Carnegie swore softly.

"All in favor?"

Becky elegantly raised on hand, and, after being roused from his world of numbers and blueprints, Amir did as well. Gloria Parson's thin, wrinkled hand joined them, blue veins snaking beneath sagging milk white flesh. Even Carnegie's calloused and scarred paw was raised. Delta saw as all of the survivors voted in favor, albeit grudgingly. All but Billy. Alice saw this and concern washed over her face.

"I, I've been there before," she started, pleadingly, "it's safe. Really safe. I promise."

Billy was unmoved. Bitter eyes looked up from the floor. "What's the point" he spat, rising to his feet. "None of us are ever getting out of this hole."

He turned heel and returned to his room, unmoved by the looks of concern and pity that came from his friends, his family, and his own mother, crisis and tragedy finally awakening her from the stupor she seemed to live in.

"Billy," his name lilted in the air, his mother's voice a mournful, crystalline tone, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. But her pleadings touched on deaf ears and her son stormed out. She moved to follow, but Carnegie caught hold of her wrist.

"I'll go," he told the woman with tears in her eyes. "Man to man. Something's got him shaken up." Limply, Gloria nodded, and sunk back into her seat, silently sobbing. Carnegies sighed and turned to Amir and Becky. "Radio Tenebaum, tell her we're coming." He turned to the pair of Big Daddies and his eyes narrowed. "You two get ready. It's moving day soon, and guess who's going to be in charge of the heavy lifting."

oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooo

It had all been going so well, Eleanor thought wistfully. Jack had left an hour ago with Liz and Marie, leaving the four of them, Masha, Katie, Claire, and herself in charge of the gaggle of little girls while he was out. They had them playing games, smiling and laughing again, and almost, almost, forgetting of Rapture, if only for a moment. And then, with a long solemn note, the doorbell rang.

The mirth and joy dried up like water in a desert, and in an instant the four older girls were on their feet. "I'll see who it is," Katie commanded in hushed tone, "get these guys upstairs and out of sight." When Masha moved to make a sour retort, Claire hit the back of her head, and the other raven haired girl grudgingly listened to her sister. The three set about the frustrating, noisy work of herding the group of small children out of sight.

Swallowing, Katie approached the door. Nightmares played through her mind, visions of Splicers and Daddies, and a world of roses and satin. She made her face a mask. _It could be anyone out there_, she thought, mind racing. _Cops, FBI, Feds. Did they finally found us._ Quaking, she went to the peephole and peered out, expecting demons.

She found the plump, grey-haired form of Mrs. Annabelle T. Beauregard, their neighbor. Stunned, Katie opened the door.

"Katie dear, hello! Would you mind terribly if I came in?"

The cheery old woman's slow Georgia drawl hit her full force, and, scrambling for words. "M-Mrs. Beauregard. What a surprise! Of course!"

The aged Southern belle eyed her warily. "Dearie, are you well? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Oh, well, uh, I'm just tired is all," The girl fumbled to find a lie, anything the placate the lady. "Been up late working on a project for school.'

It seemed to work. Mrs. Beauregard's fear had been relieved, but it was replaced by another of her traits which in her haste the young woman had forgotten off; her curiosity. Nearing eighty and not far from senile, Mrs. Annabelle T. Beauregard was possessed of that singular well intentioned ability to inquire about and talk of near anything for hours on end.

"Is that so? Oh well I do hope I'm not disturbing you then. You must tell me about it later if there's the time. Is your father home?"

"Oh no, I'm afraid not. He's out. Had some...errands, to do. Yah. He won't be back for a while I'm afraid."

The older woman gave a small pout. "What a shame. I do so enjoy talking with him. Such a nice man, your father. Well I'll be quick then. Just need some sugar and I'll be on my way."

The heavyset woman bustled inside, brushing Katie out of the way. Reeling slightly, the girl looked around wildly, while Mrs. Beauregard settled into the entry hall and prattled on, her speech slow as molasses, oblivious to all. Katie panicked. Through a wide archway was the living room, and the scattered remains of the little girls' playtime laid everywhere. _Not good, not good,_ Katie thought, forcing a smile to face her neighbor. _Need a distraction...kitchen. Yes. Hope she still loves cooking._

Gently, the girl steered her older neighbor towards the kitchen, smiling sweetly all the way. "What was it you needed Mrs. Beauregard? Sugar?" She noticed the mountain of dishes in the sink, the remains of the breakfast feast, too late. With a muttered curse, the girl slid over and blocked it from view, leaning against the counter and concealing it behind her back.

Her efforts had been futile however, for the dithering old woman took no notice, too preoccupied in settling her gingham clad bulk into a kitchen chair. She sat with a sigh of relief.

"Ah now that's much better. These old bones ache something fierce some days." She fiddled with her grey bun for a moment, before glassy eyes turned back to her hostess. "Where was I again, dearie?"

Katie forced another smile. "Sugar."

"Oh yes, the sugar. Silly me. Well the grandchildren are stopping in later, and they do love my pecan pie, so I was hoping-"

A sudden cascade of thumps and booms broke off her glacial request, and a second later Eleanor came stumbling into the room. Katie wanted to slap her.

"Oh, my heavens!" the older woman exclaimed "Dear are you alright? Have you hurt yourself?"

Eleanor scrambled to her feet, professing her apologies and assurances of her well being, only to realize her mistake from the queer looks of Mrs. Beauregard and the glare from Katie. "I, uh, tripped," she admitted, bashfully.

"And who might you be?" the old woman inquired.

Eleanor opened her mouth but had no answer, words dying in her throat.

"This is Eleanor," Katie blurted, returning the old woman's attention to her. "She's a, uh, exchange student from England. Yah, she's working on the project with me."

There was a moment of relief, and Katie thought the bullet dodged, only for Mrs. Beauregard to turn her attentions back to Eleanor, with a sweet and innocent smile across her weathered face.

"England? You don't say. What part?"

Eleanor fumbled for an answer, wracking her brain for any stray name or place that her mother had ever mentioned.

"Erm...London?"

It was more a question than an answer, but the old Southerner took it in stride.

"Oh London! Such a lovely city. My William and I, bless his soul, visited before the war. The Great War mind you, when we fought the Kaiser. It had been a fine year for tobacco sales, and with the extra money he took us one a whirlwind trip of Europe. Oh the memories of it all..."

Katie breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs. Beauregard slipped into her reverie, and moved to retrieve a bag of sugar. It was nearly twenty minutes later when she departed with it, her story having spanned three generations, two world wars, and nigh all of her audience's patience. Eleanor and Katie saw her off with a facade of sugary smiles, and dropped them, exhausted, as soon as she left. Katie turned to her British counterpart, shaking her head.

"God but she can talk."

Eleanor nodded in agreement. "You're not the one who had to improvise a life story for her."

Katie shrugged with a wry smile. "You did fine without me," she answered, before her smile faded. "Still, we came too close there."

"Agreed. You all have been more than generous to me...and the girls...but we need to find a long term solution." Melancholy settled over her. "We can't hide here forever."

Katie sighed, a darker breath than before.

"I know that. Dad will be back soon, and we can figure all this out." A sly grin crept back onto her face soon after. "But if I ever need to fool my neighbor again, I'll know who to call."

oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooooo

Carnegie entered the room silently, finding the boy he loved as a son sitting cross-legged on his bed, listening to the voice of a long dead father. Billy stared up at him, coldly. The older man sighed.

"Talk to me Billy. What's all this about?"

The young man sat in silence, refusing to meet the man's gaze.

"What's the point of it all?" he asked, sullenly. With the click of a button he shut off the audio recorder, callously tossing it aside. Michael Carnegie narrowed his gaze.

"Is that it? The recordings? That's why you suddenly decide to give up on us?"

"You don't understand," Billy retorted, fire in his eyes. "You don't know what it's like to-"

"The hell I don't," Carnegie roared, and reaching into a jacket pocket, he produced a recorder akin to Billy's own. "You think you were the only one who went through Delta's recorders? You want to know what I found?"

Billy felt the words catch in his throat. There was only one thing that could shatter the stone faced visage of Michael Carnegie. "Nina," he answered, under his breath, guiltily.

"I could hear my wife wasting away to nothing. Listened to her struggle and work," Carnegie shook his head and gave a bitter laugh, "always putting the kids first." He returned his hard glare back to Billy, who balked beneath it. "I know what it feels like, Billy. You clutch to that hope that they're still alive, still out there, and then this comes along and kicks it all out from under you. I get it." He sighed, and with two long strides was over to the bedside, sitting next to the youth. "Kid you got your whole life left though, and I'll be damned if I let you rot down here any longer. We're getting out of here, and it'll go a hell of a lot easier if you stop moping."

BIlly gazed hollowly at him. "But, my dad, I-"

"They did all kinds of evil in that prison, son. Everyone in this city has suffered, and yeah, it's terrible. But you can't dwell on it. Living in the past will only eat you up. You've got to let go. Don't forget, but move on, and draw strength from the memory." With a slight groan, the older man rose back to his feet. "Think about what your dad would've wanted you to do." With that, he strode towards the door.

"Mike, wait."

The older man turned to face his counterpart, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. Billy's face was mess of shame, grief, and anger, but in his eyes there sat a glimmer of hope, a welcome sight to Michael Carnegie's gaze.

"Thanks." Billy offered it simply, and purely.

The man who had raised him gave him a small smile. "It's what I'm here for, Billy-boy."

As he left Billy's room, Michael Carnegie knew that grief would continue to haunt the young man, but he prayed that he had made it seem perhaps more conquerable. Yet, inevitably, his thoughts turned to his own discoveries.

A few steps down the hall, he collapsed into an ancient armchair, her voice playing through his head. He knew he should stop, that he should make his peace, but it all seemed to futile. There she was, portrait on the recorder, his own angel. And she had starved to death. For ten years the question had haunted him, the fate of his beloved wife and only child, yet the truth he faced was more tragic than he had ever imagined.

Locked in amusement park, a cathedral to the ego of Andrew Ryan, slowly wasting away as the city descended into madness. That was fate that befell them, his beautiful Nina and sweet, curious Donny.

Fingers trembling, the man fished out the picture that Alice had broken, the film wrinkled and faded, but its image, as precious to him as gold, still intact. Nina stood resplendent in even the simplest of house dresses, and even under the sea Donny had managed to get dirty. They posed in front of a park fountain, not a care in the world, happy in paradise. Slowly but surely, a tear snaked its way down the craggy weathered face, splashing down onto the picture held in gnarled hands. For the first time in many years, Michael Carnegie wept.

**End Chapter. Phew. Sorry for the gaps in updates folks. A belated Happy Easter/Spring Break/ Springtime-Holiday-of-Your-Choosing to all. Things got a bit wordy up there, I know, and I promise action shall be smashing back onto the scene very soon. Quick refresher to help for comprehension;**

** In the Persephone level, a recording from Billy Parson's dad could be found in the cell containing the prisoner who hung himself, and it was a sad one indeed.**

** In the Ryan's Amusements level, there is a series of recordings from one Nina Carnegie (I am disappointed in you all for not picking up the connection between her and Mike. Tsk. Tsk.) She was serving as the chaperone for a school field trip to the park, and on the night of the New Years Eve riots, she and the third grade class (which included a named kid called Donny) were locked in. They subsequently starved, with her dying first because she gave all her food to the kids. Again, cheerful.**

**Now, time for some shameless self advertisement! Yay! **

**If you enjoy the Fallout series (ooh, gritty post-apocalyptia. Fun times), please check out my fic under that category call ****Legacy****. **

**If you like the world of DC comics (Batman, Superman, etc. Come on, who doesn't like superheroes?) check out ****In the Shadow of Giants****.**

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**Okay, soul selling self advertisement done. Thanks for putting up with me. Please review. Until next time folks.**


	32. The Great Unknown

**Disclaimer: Still don't own it, still praying Ken Levine and the rest of the crew who gave us this marvelous series don't sue me. Some things never change. Ah, new chapter. You can just taste the waterlogged depression, rotten fish, and crusty blood. Delicious. Enjoy.**

Loading the train was a slow and ambling affair. Delta, Sigma, and even sometimes Alice with her enhanced strength bore most of the load of carrying down the heavy items from the complex, mostly machinery and medical equipment from Amir's "lab". All in all four of the trains cars had been filled to the brim with boxes and crates of salt-soaked memories, but the majority of oddities came from the lab. Amir had collected the corpses of Rapture's mechanical marvels over the years, and he was intent on keeping them for further study. Delta obliged, if grudgingly, but comforted himself with the boy's promises of upgraded equipment. No more desperate searches for Fontaine's rusting Power to the People stations.

An hour later, the task was finished. Carnegie's control of the building's sole remaining elevator had expedited the process, but the sheer volume of items that needed to be loaded had still slowed them. A decade's worth of memories and trinkets was not a small collection. At last though, the passengers were aboard. Delta and Carnegie packed themselves into the cabin of the engine car while the rest of the group filed into the second car, the luggage filling the rest of the train. Carnegie's hands were weathered and gnarled, but lightning quick, and a few seconds later, they were off, rumbling away down the tracks.

The sleek locomotive slid into the water like a steel knife, sinking beneath the waves with hardly a ripple. They sped along in the darkness for only a moment, before the short tunnel gave way to open rail traipsing across the city. Through the glass, Delta watched as the rail lead them away from the short, squat buildings of Midtown, nestled amongst the glaring opulence of glinting towers that reached for a distant sun and sky, steel redwoods of the sea. The skyscrapers were the trees, and Midtown the brush, and the Big Daddy knew that before long they would pass the weeds, glaring sores that paradise disowned and left forgotten, like the slums of Pauper's Drop, or the sleazy halls of Siren Alley.

The tracks meandered through the city, splitting at junctions and doubling back to stations, a line of monorails that crisscrossed Rapture. They soared above slums and snaked through the shadows of skyscrapers, a bird's eye view of the death of utopia. The towers which once stood so proud and dressed with gaily lit signs and neon lights now flickered weakly in the currents. Many had submitted to the forces of time, nature, and disrepair; bits and pieces had crumbled and tumbled to the seafloor, some worn down to mere stubs, as short and ugly as the eyesores they had once eclipsed. Others had merely been whittled away to rusting skeletons of steel and concrete, their brilliant facades worn away by the waves. The Big Daddy looked down, to the gloomy alleys of sand and debris that wove between districts, a graveyard of lost ships, drowned souls, and broken dreams. Currents blew sand like slow winds, gradually obscuring the rusted hulls and twisted remains. What man had stolen, the sea now reclaimed.

Delta watched it all in silence. Carnegie seemed to embody the city that had made a prisoner of him; bitter, mysterious, and indomitably resilient. With every blow, he would buckle, but he would not break. Just like Rapture. Dead and rotting the city sat, but it would not go quietly. No, the spawn of a twisted dream fought tooth and nail, snarling like a mad dog every step of the way. Still, a bitter old man and a mute giant hardly made for much conversation, and so the silence remained as the city passed before their eyes, a slow montage beyond the glass.

He turned his gaze forward. The track kept coming, an endless grey line, emerging from the gloom. And then suddenly it wasn't. Roaring, Delta turned Carnegie's attention to the looming precipice. The man's eyes went wide, and his hands flew to the brake. The man quaked and he cursed, pulling the lever towards his with all his might. The train shuddered and slowed, but with a curse Carnegie felt the lever slip from his hands and the train surged forward once more. With a growl, Delta trained his iron grip on the little metal rod and _pulled_. The locomotive answered, painfully slowly. The train creaked and groaned and screamed, still locked in its charge forwards. The hole in the track kept coming. One of the skeletal supports that held the rail aloft had succumbed to the sea, and taken a massive chunk with it.

Delta stared icily at it and redoubled his grip. The lever shuddered but held firm in his fleshless hand, vibrations rocketing up his arm. The train shook like an earthquake, and Carnegie stumbled to the floor. The Big Daddy held firm, grit his teeth, and pulled. With painful lethargy the train slowed. But still the hole loomed ahead. He knew if they reached them, it was doom. One more husk for the graveyard.

The train crept still forward, the hole inching closer. The train groaned and creaked, and with a final shudder stopped. With a quick, singular motion, the Big Daddy released the brakes. For a moment, he gazed out the window, the splintered end of the concrete track a hair's breadth from the nose of the train, fearing they would fall, but he locomotive was still, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Carnegie stumbled to his feet, and looked out the window.

"Well shit," he muttered.

"What the hell happened?" came a voice crackling over the intercom, Becky's most likely.

"Tracks out ahead," Carnegie hollered back, mashing the button to speak down with his thumb. "We're going to have to backtrack and look for a junction."

"It was fine when we came here," Alice piped up in the background. Carnegie looked at Delta, and the Big Daddy could only shrug. Things were always breaking in Rapture nowadays. Even so, the metal man peered at the break in the tracks intently. It did seem more than just ill luck that the one track they needed would have broken. He prayed he was wring, and that all it was just coincidence.

Sighing, Carnegie flipped a switch, and the train lurched forward. For a single, terrifying moment, the Big Daddy thought they would plunge over the tracks, but a second later the train started to crawl backwards. It seemed like an eternity before the reached the last junction, and man backed the train up until their car looked out at the two diverging paths. A metal rail, coated and crusted with barnacles and sea life, was the mechanism which switched the train to a new track. It seemed entrenched in its current alignment, which led to the hole.

"Now what?" Carnegie spat, wishing for all the world that he had grabbed on last pack of cigarettes for the ride.

Delta was unperturbed. With a flick of his wrist, the eddying, swirling currents of telekinesis grew from his palm and fingertips, like ripples of heat off pavement. With a grunt and a wave, he trained the powers of ADAM on the troublesome rail, and willed it to switch. The rail seemed to shake, struggling to obey the Big Daddy's command, yet held back by ten year's worth of detritus built up around it. With a final crack and snap, the rail broke free of its crustaceous prison and flipped to the new line of tracks, bits and pieces of the trash which had entombed it floating away. Carnegie gave a grunt of approval.

"Nice job," he said, putting the train back into motion. Their ride chugged forwards, slowly at first, but with mounting speed. "Now we just need to figure out where this takes us."

oooooooooo ooooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo

Jack Ryan looked down the little girl sitting next to him on the bench in Central Park. Her mousy brown hair had been tamed with comb and brush, and she fitting and comfortable, if not fancy, clothes. She was nervous, he could see it in her eyes.

"What do you remember about your family, Janie," he asked, voice gentle.

She looked at him with wide eyes, trepidation lurking behind the brave face she put on. She smiled, swinging her legs back and forth, feet not touching the ground.

"There's Mommy, and Daddy," she cringed slightly at that name before continuing, "and my brother Sam, and my puppy Goldilocks." She frowned for a second. "Though I guess he's not really a puppy anymore." For a moment, fear reigned in her. "What if, what if they don't remember me? What if they don't want me?" The terror in her broke his heart.

Jack gave the girl a firm hug. "Now none of that. Your parents never stopped looking for you. They love you. I know you remember that." Janie gave a weak smile, and Jack sighed. After recovering the files from Meltzer's home, he'd written to all the families of the girls, requesting a meeting and promising them a lead on their daughters. Janie Reddick was New York native, and her parents had been the first to respond. So here he was, little girl in tow, dressed in a dark coat and fedora. He knew it was a dangerous gamble, but the girls deserved better. And he had a plan.

"Do you remember what I told you, Janie?"

The girl nodded. "I can't tell them about the scary place, or, or my other Daddy." She was downcast, and Jack hated himself for it, but it had to be done.

"And why not?" he asked.

"Because if I keep it a secret, no one else can ever get hurt by it."

Jack nodded solemnly. Young they may be, but these girls were wise beyond their years. He shook his head; tragedy often forced maturity.

Jack returned his attentions to the path and watched the crowd. There. A couple was approaching them, the woman in wide red hat, as per their agreed sign. Taking Janie's hand, he led the girl towards the pair. A few yards apart, mother and daughter caught sight of each other. Jack watched as the two, with tears in their eyes, ran for each other, and the woman took her child in a tight embrace. The reunited family held each other tight, and Jack watched from a distance. Finally, he walked over. He hated to ruin the picturesque scene, but there was work to be done.

The father saw him coming, and extricated himself from the hug. Charles Reddick was a bear of a man, and he took Jack in a tight hug.

"Thank you," he said, releasing the man. "Thank you, thank you thank you! I, just, I, how?"

Jack gave him a polite smile. "Walk with me for a moment, Mr. Reddick. There are some things we need to discuss. A look of confusion, and then concern washed over the large, bearded man's face, already red from joyful tears. A few yards from the rejoicing mother and child, Jack stopped, and turned to face the man, needing to look up slightly to meet his eyes.

"Who are you, truly?"

The question was upon him before Jack had the chance to compose himself. Sighing, he fished into his pocket and retrieved the badge he had taken from the FBI agents in the warehouse, what felt like a thousand years ago. He flashed the shining metal and pocketed it again.

"Special Agent Cohen," he answered, as official sounding as he could make it. "FBI taskforce."

Reddick's eyes narrowed. "Taskforce for what? Where was my daughter?" he demanded.

"Please calm down sir. This is going to be difficult to hear." Jack breathed deep, and noted Reddick's hard glare. Joy had been replaced with suspicion. "For the past year, your daughter was a prisoner of child slavery ring. She was kept drugged for much of that time, so her memories will be piecemeal."

Jack watched Charles Reddick. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes were alight with rage, a vein bulged in his forehead. "What!" he hissed, struggling to keep his voice down.

"Sir, please try to keep yourself calm. Allow me to finish explaining this."

Reddick grit his teeth and clenched fists, but he was silent. Jack led them over to the bench and sat down, inviting his audience to do so as well.

"As I was saying, this group was responsible for your daughter's kidnapping, and subsequent holding. Your daughter was freed in a raid on one of their centers of operation. She was screened at a hospital, and medically speaking is fine. Psychologically, she Is going to need help to get over this. Even with the memory loss, it's a traumatizing experience."

Charles Reddick glared at him, disbelief and rage mounting. "How did this happen?"

Jack sighed. "These are classified operations, Mr. Reddick. I am not at liberty to say anymore. As a parent of a victim of this ring, you are entitled to knowledge of it, but I cannot give you any more details."

"And why the hell not?" the man growled.

Jack hardened his gaze. "Because, sir, this group is still operating. They work in a compartmentalized fashion, each cell separate from another. With the element of surprise, we can take them out one by one. Bring more children back to their families." He delivered the last line with a degree of venom, and Reddick looked away, ashamed. Jack softened his tone.

"Mr. Reddick, you area military man, aren't you?"

The bear of a man nodded. "Two tours in Korea," he answered solemnly.

"Then I know that you appreciate the danger that an intelligence leak can pose. That is why I cannot give you any more details. And that is why we need you silence."

The man still glared at him, and Jack sighed. "Sir, I want to nab these sick bastards as badly as you do. And we are working to do just that. But if they get wind of what we're doing, they'll go underground. They will disappear, and will take those kids with them."

Reddick took a deep breath, and met Jack's gaze.

"You brought us our baby girl back," he said, in his baritone voice. "If the price is not sniffing around the details, then, well, it's a price I'll gladly pay." He extended one massive hand towards the faux agent, and Jack met it. Reddick nearly crushed his hand.

"Thank you, Agent Cohen. This means more than you can imagine."

Jack nodded, and tipped his hat. "Take care of her. She's been through a lot." _More than you can imagine_, he added silently. Reddick nodded, and the two men left each other, heading back to their family. Jack spared a gaze back, and watched as the larger man took his wife and child in a massive hug. He smiled, and headed back down the road, trees overhead leaving him shade.

He smiled, looking up at the sky, and didn't see the old man until it was too late. Wind knocked form his chest, Jack stumbled back to his feet, and helped the older man up as well. Jack offered his apologies to the man, clad almost as he was, with long trench coat and wide hat, before continuing on his way back home. In his haste, he did not see the gnarled hands, or mottled face beneath the hat.

The old man gave a terrible smile, thin lips peeling back over rotten teeth, his eyes glinting madly. "Oh, my ears and whiskers, how late its getting," the man giggled under his breath, with Jack firmly out of ear shot. "Be seeing you soon, Mr. Ryan."

**End Chapter. Please review. Please note though that my review response system appears to be on the fritz, so if I don't get back to you on it, please don't take offense. Also, (warning, shameless self advertisement ahead), if you like the Fallout game series, check out my story under that category, entitled **_**Legacy**_**. Thanks. Until next time folks.**


	33. Unwanted Guests

**Disclaimer: I own a whole lot of nothing (except this humble fic. God it would be awesome if some of the folks over at 2K could look at this. Maybe let me novelize it or something. I mean they moved on from Rapture didn't they? Bioshock Infinite isn't there. So maybe there's some hope this could someday be turned legit? Maybe?) **

** Whew, sorry about that little tangent there. First of all thanks to all my reviewers, past and present (and hopefully future). You guys make writing this all the more worth it. Before we get to the meat of the story, two little issues I need to address.**

** First of all, the old man at the end of the last chapter WAS Lutwidge. Thought I made it pretty obvious, but apparently not. Though in my defense, how many ugly old maniacs who quote Alice in Wonderland do I have in this story? Last I checked, only one (though they have been known to sneak in from time to time. Clever bastards)**

** Also, as a reviewer who specializes in locomotives brought to my attention, my dramatic train stop was a bit unrealistic. Sorry. Let's just go with the excuse that because its underwater, the physics are a little bit wonky. Maybe the water resistance helped slow it down quicker. I don't know, just roll with it. Suspension of disbelief, people. (Please note that despite how whiny I may sound right now, I do appreciate this being brought to my attention. I do strive for **_**relative**_** realism in my stories, and should any other issue of fact checking ever rise, please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention.)**

** Finally, as a preemptive strike against any canon fanatics who may be reading, I know that a soon to be introduced district from Bioshock 1 (ooh, which could it be?) did not have an Atlantic Express station in the game, but, is the addition of a train station really that big of a deal? It's not like I'm radically altering anything. Just roll with it. **

** Well, now that that has been settled, we can get to the good stuff. Bon appétit**

The train pulled into a station as dark as the abyss that had swallowed the crumbling facade of Persephone, the only light in the inky darkness from the train itself. They had been lucky, Delta thought. The junction's second track had been their only hope, and the steel bulwark that led into the station had been openjust enough for their train to slide in. The door out was another matter. The train screeched to a halt before it, a massive plate of cold steel, rusting and rotting in its dark tomb. Carnegie swore.

"Looks like powers out for the entire district, and nothing short of a few sticks of dynamite will blow through that thing." The man stroked his salt and pepper whiskers, before clicking his tongue with distaste. He faced Delta, weary look on his face. "I know for a fact that the power plants at Hephaestus are still chugging along. That means this place must've gotten turned off somehow. Every district had a backup line to the juice in case something like this ever happened. Somewhere in the substructure of," he paused, looking about futilely for any indication of their location, "wherever the hell we are, there's a breaker. If someone flips that, we can get this whole place back up and running, and more importantly open that goddamn door."

The Big Daddy knew from the man's tone that by somebody, he meant him. He gave a grumbling sigh. Carnegie shrugged.

"Hey you're the best option we have for this," he said defensively, before getting a thoughtful glint in his hard eyes. "On second thought, take that new guy, Sigma with you. You two need to learn how to play nice with each other. Nothing like unknown danger to bring two people together."

Delta grumbled once more. What the man said was true. He didn't like it, but it was true. Cursing his scarred vocal cords, the Big Daddy pointed to the other cars, where their companions and possessions rode. Carnegie narrowed his eyes, trying to comprehend.

"What will we be doing?" he tried, which received a nod of validation. He continued. "We'll stay here, man down the fort." His answer seemed to be unsatisfactory, as Delta continued pointing insistently. Carnegie furrowed his brows slightly. "Not us," he started slowly, "but Alice?"

Delta nodded his affirmation.

"Well she can go with you two if you want but-"

The metal man cut him off, shaking his head no, and giving a thumbs down.

"You want her to stay?"

He received a thumbs up.

The older man harrumphed thoughtfully. "Well, look who's feeling fatherly now. Alright, she'll stay with us." He shrugged. "Having a friendly Big Sister around will make defending this position easier, anyways."

With that, it was decided. With a hiss, the door of the car opened and depressurized, and the two stepped into the gloom. The lights of the train were paltry to begin with, but here the dark threatened to overwhelm it. A few yards away, the world turned black, leaving nothing but the train and a bit of platform, an oasis in a sea of darkness. A few knocks on the second car, where the others rode, and the door to that one opened as well. Carnegie gave them the short version, and Alice looked crestfallen.

"But," she choked, "Daddy-" Delta saw the pain in her eyes, the fear. Fear for him. He knew what she was thinking about. The last hostile Big Sister they had faced had buried him beneath a mountain of rubble. Alice had though he had died. And she unleashed hell on her former compatriot. She feared for his life, feared he would fall into danger, and slip away. No longer was he her shining invincible knight, just a faceless man in a suit, and all too mortal. He took her in a tight hug, not too tight, as he minded the roughness of his armor, but an embrace nonetheless. With gentleness defiant of his size, the metal man brushed a budding tear from her bared face, and stepped back. The girl bit her lip and nodded in acceptance, heading back her seat and collapsing there. Guilt gnawed at his heart, but Delta knew it was better this way. He gestured for Sigma, who prickled slightly, but followed. The two set off into the gloom, side by side.

Not wishing to venture forth blind, the Big Daddy raised his gauntleted hand and summoned forth a globe of fires. Gouts of flame roared to life betwixt his fingers, and the metal man forced his will upon them. It was not a flamethrower he needed, but a candle. The flames answered, wavering slightly before coalescing into a rough ball, stemming from his fingertips as he held his hand outstretched. Wan light radiated out from it, and Delta took in the scene around him.

The train station was in shambles, and hardly recognizable. Huge, moldering red curtains and drapes adorned the walls, cracked porcelain masks pinned to them. Corpses, skeletons with the barest bits of flesh remaining, were pinned along next to them. Even worse though, were the fresh ones near the bottom of the curtains, gore and blood dripping into puddles beneath them. The light of his fire did little to illuminate much beyond a few yards away, but the message was clear already; they were not alone. Delta looked about for any kind of indication of what fresh hell they had arrived to, but had no luck. The macabre decor had obscured every sign he found. With a wary sigh, the Big Daddy hefted his shotgun in one hand, his improvised lantern in the other, and headed forward, hoping to find an opened door. Sigma followed in his footsteps, his strange burning weapon, the Ion Laser, Amir had called it, over one shoulder. He could care less for its name; all he knew, and needed to know, was that it was dangerous, and it _hurt_. The original Big Daddy also noted the plasmid his new companion currently held, a purplish greenish polyp which pulsed nauseatingly. He remembered that as well, the Gravity Well, that had picked up like a ragdoll, tossed him about, and coated him in acid. It had not been a pleasant experience.

The twin giants lumbered onwards through the dark, and the train was soon lost to the shadows behind them. Delta's firelight guided them through the gloom, illuminating a few scant tiles of the floor in front of them, the rest consumed by the blackness. They could see almost nothing, and the wall seemed to arise from nowhere. One second, there was nothing. The next, a plane of steel and ceramic, stretching up into nothingness. The pair followed the wall's edge, hoping and praying to find a door. The God, gods, and every other deity Ryan had strove to snuff out must have heard them, for the inky dark's next gift was a doorway, the battered and rusting remains of its Securis blast door face down on the ground. Delta gestured to Sigma, and the two stepped through.

For once, the metal man was glad of the sheer amount of glass in Rapture. It had brought him nothing but trouble in the past, the delicate crystal shattering and letting the frigid sea flood in. But there was something else it let in; light. Windows in the ceiling let light from the rest of the city ghost through to the corridor in which they now stood, dappled pools of light in a sea of shadows. The Big Daddy was glad for them, for they supplemented his own "lantern". Niches and alcoves sat in the walls filled with moldering and faded posters, their once gaudy colors rotted to a drab and dying palette, their words lost to age. Vending machines, med stations, phone booths, and all manner of Raptures mechanical marvels sat tucked away in them as well. The distinct lack of power was the only thing that saved them from being hacked and scrapped.

They walked through the shadows, the sounds of a dying city all around them. Steel and wood groaned and creaked as ancient pipes rumbled, water trickling from them and from failed seals around the windows. The death of paradise was a terrible sound, eerie and haunting. Delta checked every corner, watched for any movement. In darkness, he knew the Splicers would have the advantage. The pair rounded a corner, and as he peered into the next alcove, his eyes looked upon a phantom shadow, the unmistakable shape of a human torso and head, arms outstretched in attack. His response was reflex, instinctive. A blast from the shotgun obliterated the creature. And scattered shards of plaster everywhere. As they stepped forward to investigate, Delta heard a low rumble emanate from Sigma, in what could only be a laugh. He had attacked a statue, a plaster cast, its legs the only part still standing, the rest of it shattered on the floor. Still laughing, Sigma turned around, only to jump back in shock from the sight before him. Delta snickered, and observed this new development. It was a Splicer nailed spread eagle to the wall, but unlike any other he had seen before.

The beast had no eyes, not even the vestiges many Spider Splicers had. Mottled, lumpy flesh had grown over its eye sockets, sealed smooth. Its nose was no more than two slits, its ears two pits, and lips thin and gnawed. Long, pointed, crooked teeth peeked out from a wretched mouth locked rigor mortis in a snarl. The whole head was hairless, smooth and bald, and white as snow. Rapture was sunless, but this was a creature of pure darkness. No light had touched its flesh in many a year. Blood still dripped from gashes on long wiry limbs, the iron spikes which mounted it to the wall driven through each hand and foot. Long, wicked claws topped each appendage, and its only clothes were mottled, indeterminable rags. The two Big Daddies glared at each other uneasily, and continued on; if the corpse was fresh, then so was its killer.

The two forged onwards, more wary this time. The Big Daddies walked side by side, glancing all around the dark halls. Alone in the gloom, the only sounds were their own breathing and heavy footfalls.

"Hush little baby don't say a word,"

The slow, haunting, mournful song arose from the dark, echoing wildly through the steel halls. Delta raised his torch, casting the firelight about in a desperate bid to find its source, but to no avail.

"Momma's gonna buy you a mocking bird,"

The metal men halted their march, and stood back to back, looking about wildly for the singer. The monster nailed to the wall had been nearly as large as one of them, and a surprise attack could be disastrous. Still the melody came.

"And if that mocking bird won't sing,"

The voice was closer now, its source indeterminable, but near. Delta hoisted his shotgun, all six cylinders loaded. With a click, Sigma loaded a thermal cell into his laser.

"Momma's gonna buy you a diamond _ring!"_

Its final word a feral scream, from the shadows a blur erupted, claws raking Delta across the chest. Reeling, the Big Daddy swung his gun like a club, and felt a deep satisfaction as he felt bone cave beneath the blow. The Splicer feel the ground, screaming, and a blast from the shotgun silenced it, shredding its head to a bloody mess. He gave the corpse a final vindictive kick before crouching down to examine it. Long, lanky, and wickedly clawed like its comrade on the wall, the Big Daddy could speak from experience that the monsters packed a punch. What disturbed him was how it had been able to creep up so close before its strike. With that, he decided upon these new foes' name. Creepers. Gaunt, almost skeletally so, they nonetheless possessed of them a wiry strength. And the Big Daddy prayed that they hunted alone. This time, his prayers went un answered.

From the darkness, a cacophony of voice filled the air.

"...quoth the Raven, nevermore..."

"To be, or not to be, that is the ..."

"...Jack fell down, and lost his crown, and Jill came tumbling after..."

Reverberating off each corner and wall, the mournful cries of the damned echoed madly. Closer and closer they sounded, and the Big Daddies did not hesitate. Back to back, they readied themselves, nerves of steel, waiting, _listening_ for the moment to strike to arrive. The voices were closer, the Creepers taunts ringing in their ears. It was close enough.

With a roar, Delta brought down the hand that lit their way, and the embers bloomed into a river of fire. Gouts of hellfire gushed from his palm, arching back and forth as the metal man swung his arm. Sigma snarled and let loose with the Ion Laser, the red tinged beam cutting swaths through the darkness like a flaming sword. All around them, the Creepers screamed, their thin bodies and tattered rags igniting in bursts of flame. All around them, flaming phantoms writhed and screamed, swaying and swinging wildly, striking each other blindly more often than not. Those that strayed to near were put down with a shotgun shell to the chest. They sizzled and burned to cinders. And still more came. With a bellow, Sigma lobbed a slimy polyp into the darkness. A second later, the gravity well detonated, and new screams filled the air. Once, twice, three times he tossed the nauseating, purple grey skeins into the gloom, and three times there came the death screams of Creepers as acid splashed across their pale, taut flesh, and wind rushed through the damp fetid halls as the vortexes sucked in everything near them, and tossed its victims like ragdolls. Signs creaked and snapped as they were ripped from their mountings, vending machines screeching and groaning as they were dragged across the floor. Then, there was silence.

Breathing deeply, Delta clenched his hand and let a new EVE hypo flow through his veins. He turned to his companion, and watched as Sigma loaded in a new energy cell, popping new shells into his own weapon. Facing each other, the twin Alpha series nodded in silent agreement, and set off down the hall, heavy boots crushing charred flesh underfoot. There was work to be done.

**End Chapter. Hope you enjoyed it folks. It was a blast to write. Points to whoever guesses where they are. Think people; curtains, plaster statues, and crazies who quote the arts. Shouldn't be too hard. Anyways, please review and tell me what you think, what I could do better. Anything you want really. Until next time folks.**


	34. Heart of Darkness

**Disclaimer: Yep, still don't own it. Just thought I'd let you know. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here. Main attraction is below. Seriously. There's no useful information in this heading. I can promise you that. Why are you still reading this? Story's down there, chum. It's quite silly you know, wasting your time with all this fluff up here. Who knows what I could be doing right now. Pop. Oops, there goes Delta. He's dead, and you'd have never known because you were too busy reading these stupid disclaimers. Go on, scram. That'll teach you to pay attention to legal notices.**

Alice struggled to clear her mind, and leave behind the commotion of the real world. It was not easy. Becky seemed locked in an argument with Carnegie and Billy, while Gloria sat there, forlorn and silent as ever. As if the noise from the bickering weren't enough, booming out from the black depths the Big Daddies had ventured into came the distant echoes of gunfire and explosions, making her bitterly regret not going with them. Fear bit deep. Fear of the unknown, and the monsters that lurked there. Fear for her Father, and her new found family. Fear for the future.

That one bit deepest, and chilled her to the bone. What fate awaited the monster beyond the freak show? What fate awaited them on the surface? Would mankind take them by the hand and embrace their lost brothers and sisters, or force them back into the sea? Question upon question swam through her mind, and Alice could take it no longer.

The future was maddening, and the present dismal, so the girl turned her mind to the past. Bits and pieces of memories, like faded, blurry photographs, were all she could conjure of her past, and gritting her teeth, the girl began to sift through them, the jagged pieces of a shattered psyche. Her broken life.

She was seven again, blissfully skipping through gaily lit halls of Dionysus Park, playing games with the other children while the adults drank and danced, and wishing that the carousel with its painted horses would never end. One night, she was sick. The kindly old woman next door was her sitter, but when the news broke over the television and radio, that the artistic haven had flooded, all the soft words of consolation meant nothing. Tears streaming down her face and in nothing but her nightshirt, she ran. The steel and iron of Rapture, chilled by the sea, felt as ice beneath her bare feet, but still she ran. The kindly old sitter, and then others, called out for her, begging her to stop. But still she ran, crying and screaming and stumbling all the way. All too soon she was lost, each twist and turn of the city's metal halls identical to the last, swallowing her whole. Alone, hungry, and so bitterly cold, she had been overjoyed when the grease-stained mechanic had come up to her, going down to one knee, and whispering promises of a hot meal, and fresh clothes, so happy that she had been found. Blind, she had taken his hand, this unknown man, her savior. So overjoyed she had been, until the man's soft words had turned harsh, and his grip turned to iron, and from the depths of his coveralls he had produced a gleaming needle. And then, blackness.

Fighting the urge to retreat, to leave the past to the past, and languish in ignorance, Alice forced herself to remember, to dredge up what time had buried. A hell of needles welcomed her, a nightmare of scalpels and doctors and antiseptic, of cutting and sewing and cutting and sewing and needle upon needle upon needle. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, replaced with an utter bliss as she skipped through halls of gold and marble, with red velvet curtains, carpets of rose petals, and so many, many angels. Daddy was there beside her, resplendent in his armor and ready to defend her against any and all who dared to challenge them.

For a blink of an eye, hell returned, and Daddy, sweet Daddy had fallen. But the very next moment paradise had returned, as did Daddy, only now, slightly, different. Changed somehow. She watched him, calling out for Mr. Bubbles, yet he began to turn away, and she could not understand why. In the present, Alice grimaced. The memories were so hazy, so indistinct and clear. Yet she knew that this was important, that this memory, this moment in her life, was key, and closing her eyes she forged on.

It came to her crystal clear. Daddy turned away, but he was led by another. Another little girl, another Sister, so happy in her ignorance. That was what had led Daddy away. In the present, Alice's eyes shot open, her mouth a snarl.

_"_No one will take him away from me again," she muttered under her breath. "_No one._"

ooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooo

They burnt. Bullets hardly fazed them, and melee against their long claws and hardened skin was suicide. But fire worked. The Creepers, as Delta had dubbed them, had dogged their every move through whatever lost district of Rapture they had been stranded in. Wretched, twisted creatures of the dark, they stalked their prey, spouting off babbling nonsense, before slinking in for the attack. It was fire that killed them, and fire that guided the two Big Daddies as the ventured through the pitch black halls of their unknown hell.

Delta sighed; it felt as if they had been stumbling blindly for hours, and they were no closer to their goal than when they had began. The twin Alphas, Delta and Sigma, stomped onwards, their footsteps booming thumps against the tile. Suddenly though, their sound changed. The deep basso of metal boots on tiled floor changed, becoming more hollow, a distant echo sounding. Delta and Sigma froze in their tracks. The hollow beneath could mean that they had found the service tunnels that held their goal. The two Big Daddies looked at each other, and Delta shrugged; they had to at least try.

Stumbling around with only the light of their "candle" to guide them, the twin Alphas headed towards the wall and beheld a sight which brought relief to the beleaguered pair; a rusted, decrepit door labeled 'service access'. Weapons raised, the Big Daddies approached the door, and Sigma took hold of the handle.

The door wouldn't budge. With a grunting roar, Sigma stowed his weapons, took hold with both hands, and tried again. The door hardly moved. With a rumbling laugh, Delta brushed Sigma aside, and took his turn. Seeing as a pull had barely moved it, he opted for a push. Drill upraised, he charged the rusty metal portal, only to bounce off it with a crash like a gong. Now it was Sigma's turn to laugh, but the mirth did not last long.

"Free me from this mortal coil..."

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

Dark, twisted voices emanated out from the gloom; the Creepers were coming, and time was of the essence. Growling, Delta stepped back and pulled out his launcher, loading in a cartridge of proximity mines. With a grunt of approval, Sigma did the same, and a few seconds later the offending door was plastered with explosives. Putting even more distance between themselves and the door, the Alphas backed up, and Delta pulled out his rivet gun, intending to set their charges off. He never got the chance.

One second, he was aiming down the sights, and the next an explosion ripped through the dark hallways, massive fireball lighting up everything around it, if only for a moment. Half a second later, the twin Alphas were splattered with the charred chunks of the unfortunate Creeper who had strayed too close to the door in its efforts to take them unawares. Two more of the miserable creatures were laid out on the floor, writhing and howling as the flames played across their pallid, twisted flesh. The two Big Daddies gave each other a knowing look, revved their drills, and a few seconds later the screamers were silenced.

The service tunnel was just as dark as the hall it led off from, Delta noted. With weapons primed, the two delved into the narrow space single file, laying behind a trail of fire charged cyclone traps. After all, the Big Daddy mused, one could never be too careful.

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Delta thanked God, the gods, and every other deity that Andrew Ryan had spurned that the tunnels had directions in them. Following the signs to the emergency power breaker had been a simple matter. Activating it, it appeared, would not be so easy. By the light of his fire, the Big Daddy observed the huge block of circuit breakers and wires as Sigma stood guard, and noted with distaste that the vast majority of them had rusted and corroded away to near nothingness. A brush from one gauntleted finger was all that was needed to turn one of the wires into a pile of rotted rubber and useless metal. Growling , the metal man searched about for a solution. Throwing the switch wouldn't do anything unless there were solid connections on the breaker board. It would all have been for naught, then. Traversing these black tunnels, rescuing the Little Sisters, joining up with Carnegie; none of it would matter unless they could open that door, and keep the train moving. Seething in frustration, the original Big Daddy slammed his fist against the wall. A panel on it cracked, and therein Delta found his answer.

Between the white hot heat of a fully upgraded incinerate plasmid and the inhuman strength of two Big Daddies, the copper pipes were readily broken and reshaped, twisted and pinched, until at last Delta held enough of the makeshift wires to reconnect the circuits. With a grumble of satisfaction Delta slammed the cover of the circuit board back down, only for the rusted hinges to give way and the cover to clang off the floor. Twitching in frustration, Delta pulled the switch.

Electricity from the Hephaestus station, which fed on the power of the earth itself, flooded through the wires, and sparks crackled across their electrical patch job. Miniature lightning bolts crackled along wires, popping light bulbs as they went. Far in the distance, generators and pumps hummed to life, water and gas chugged through pipes; they had restarted the heart, and the blood was following suit. Water sprayed from where they had broken the piping, but it drained away harmlessly into a grate, and left the circuit board untouched. Countless bulbs had shattered in the power surge, but enough remained to clearly light their way. With a grunt of satisfaction, Delta extinguished the fire in his palm that had been their guide. With the power restored, the train station door could be opened, and their journey continued. Satisfied with their work, the Alphas turned to retrace their steps, only for a banshee scream to freeze them in their tracks.

Ahead, the tunnels forked, and careening down the path they had followed came a Creeper, crashing into walls and slashing at pipes as it tore at the flesh where its eyes had once been, howling and screaming its inhuman wail all the way. It was the light, the Big Daddy realized with a start. Creatures of pitch black depths, with their colorless skin and overgrown eyes, the Creepers could not stand the light, even the wan illumination of Rapture's decades old bulbs. The twin Alphas wasted no time laying into their frenzied foe, Delta with his rivet gun, its shots superheated, and Sigma with the laser, thermal cells loaded. By the time they smelled the gas, and saw the pipe the Creeper had cracked, it was too late.

The explosion's shockwave threw the two titans of Rapture back on top of each other, and in the cramped quarters extricating themselves from one another was a daunting task. Finally back on his feet, Delta surveyed the scene with a scowl. Gouts of flame flew from the broken gas lines, and the Creeper's corpse was buried beneath the rubble. They would find no escape in that direction. With a roar of frustration, he crushed the Creeper's bulbous head like a rotten melon beneath one booted foot, before helping Sigma to his feet. They shared a silent glance, and nodded in unspoken agreement; they would have to take the long way back to the train, then. And God help whatever monsters got in their way.

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With a whirr and a hum, the lights in the train station came back to life, and the occupants of the train breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"They did it," Carnegie remarked, approval in his tone.

_Of course he did it_, Alice thought as she looked out the windows. _I don't know why I was so-_

It was then that the train occupants noticed the charnel house that the station was. Heavy velvet curtains billowed down from the vaulted ceilings, stained red as much from the blood as their dye. Splicers were nailed to walls, alongside beasts that hardly looked human. Blood and rotting flesh were everywhere, with bones and bullet casings intermingled among them. Alice looked around to see most of her companions reeling from the sight, but Amir had gone as pale as a sheet.

"No," he whispered, "not here. Anywhere but here."

That was when she saw the sign overhead: "Welcome to Fort Frolic"

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In the distance, Amir could hear Carnegie, Billy, and Becky all calling for him, begging him to get a grip on himself. He knew they sat mere feet from him, but hey seemed as if thousand miles away. Memories buried years ago clawed their way to the surface, and the youth clamped shut his eyes, wishing them away like a bad dream, but to no avail.

He was a child, giddily accompanying Daddy to see Mommy's performance at Fort Frolic. She would be famous, they said, the headlining act, they said. They had all packed into the theater, ready to watch Suresh Sheti's troupe of performers dazzle and awe them. She came on, resplendent in a silk gown, and Daddy had smiled the way he always did when he told his stories. He'd sit and stroke his moustache, so prim and groomed, and delve into his memories in his heavy Cockney accent.

"All my years travelling in Arabia and Africa, digging up this ruin and that," he would start, with a nibble on his pipe, "and the greatest treasure I ever did find was your mother."

Then the performance began, and like in the stories Mommy told him to lull him to sleep, the magic began. Men and women danced with _fire_ blooming from their hands and swirling about the stage. The crowd was wowed, and Daddy terrified.

At home, he tried to sleep, tried to bury his head in his pillows, but the bitter words of his parents argument lilted up through the vent.

ADAM, splicing, "How could you?", side effects. The words haunted his dreams the whole week. After that, Daddy and he didn't go to Mommy's shows any more. He tried to put it from his mind, to forget his worries playing with Eleanor, but every day it got worse. Mommy came home later and later, and Daddy became ever more bitter. No longer did he tell stories of his adventures in the Sahara, and finding his 'Desert Flower' . His solace came from foul smelling cigars and bottles. Then, one day, as rioters ran in the streets, it all came to head.

He had heard screaming from the kitchen, and darting down the stairs he had peered out from the doorway, and watched his parents kill each other. He never knew what started the argument, what had sparked the destruction of his family, and he never cared to find out. Daddy was drunk, bottle in hand, and Mommy had a mad glint in her eye, the same look he had seen on the men in the streets. It happened in the blink of an eye. Daddy's coat went up in flames, the bottle was broken across the counter, and a jagged edge rent open Mommy's smooth neck, her pearls falling to the floor, stained red by crimson blood. Daddy threw off his coat, and struggled to douse the flames, but with a final scream, Mommy died, and Daddy was consumed in fire.

With a start, Amir opened his eyes, breathing hard. They had died in their apartment, but the end of his parents began here, in the theaters. Shuddering, he murmured and muttered, begging to leave the cursed place, and all his family, his true family, the ones who had taken him in, and the man who had raised him, could only watch, downcast, and pray.

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The head of the Office of Naval intelligence sat at his desk and scowled over the report that had been handed to him. It was times like these that he kept his bottle of whiskey for. Their own investigative team; a fully crewed submarine with a warship escort and specially outfitted diving teams, had departed from the East coast yesterday, and now he had this report. The Soviets had sent their own team, creeping through the North Sea, this morning. The implications were dire. The possibility of an intelligence leak, a mole, was disastrous in and of itself, but even worse was the possibility that they could get there _first._ Whatever secrets the Frozen Triangle held, whatever Andrew Ryan had wrought, held terrible power. He scowled and took a drink.

"And I'll be damned if those Commie sons of bitches get their hands on it before us."

**End Chapter. Phew, sorry for the long update gap folks. Been a bit under the weather as of late, so I wasn't really able to work on this. But we're back now, and I hope you liked this. Please review**


	35. Unfinished Business

**Disclaimer: Yah don't own it, sad as it may be. Anyways, my apologies for the update gap. I've a number of other projects running concurrently right now. But let's not dwell on that, shall we? Thanks to all my reviewers. Please keep up the feedback. And to all those who haven't reviewed; Would you kindly take a few moments of your time after reading to do so? It helps me make this story better for you guys. But enough with that. On to the good stuff! Guess who our special guest star this chapter is, little moth. I hope I've done you all proud.**

The screams and twisted poetry of the Creepers rattled through the maintenance chambers as the two Alpha series desperately sought a way out, the rumble and groan of ancient machinery reawakening all but drowning them out. The return of the lights had frenzied the monsters, the twisted ghosts of the finest men and women of a generation, the wretched husks who clung to the dark embrace of their shadows. Only now their haven was no more, and the beasts, blind and pale as moonlight, strangers and fearers of the burning light, sought blood to ease their pain.

A Creeper came screaming around a narrow corner, howling and hissing and spitting madly as it struggled to find its prey, but amidst the rumblings and groaning of the machines, their keen ears were no use. Slashing the air with bloodstained claws, its eyeless face a twisted grimace showing off jagged teeth, the Splicer was floored by a savage backhand from Delta. With a roar, the Big Daddy thrust his whirling drill into the creature's mottled chest, and a spray of flesh, blood, and the tattered rags the Splicer wore was splattered against the wall. Kicking the body out of the way, the Alphas charged onwards. Turn after turn after turn, the tunnels sprawled onwards, until, at last, they came upon their salvation; a freight elevator. Rusty and decrepit as it was, the machine seemed functional, and scrunching together on the narrow platform, Sigma pulled the lever, and with a groan the elevator began its ascent. It groaned a fraction too loud though, for no sooner had they begun the short climb when a pair of Creepers rounded the bend, strands of putrid spittle dribbling from cruel, twisted mouths, with colorless flesh peeking out everywhere from beneath their tattered clothes, the pitiful remains of what had once been theatre finery. The two Big Daddies wasted no time.

With a flick of the wrist, honeycombs sprouted along Delta's palm and fingers, and their stinging inhabitants quickly wriggled free of their waxy prisons. The clouds of insects swarmed their foes, stinging and biting as their victims helplessly swiped and screamed at their tiny attackers. A volley of white hot rivets flew from Sigma's gun, silencing their cries with the sizzle and pop of burn flesh. The elevator continued its slow climb. Delta gritted his teeth, and loaded in new buckshot; if their fellows in the tunnels were anything to judge by, the Creepers would have a grisly welcome waiting for them topside.

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Smartly dressed in a nondescript suit with tinted glasses, the interrogator exited the tent, cracking his neck and running calloused fingers through graying hair before heading over to the command tent. The moment he entered, all eyes were upon him, shifting from a table laden with reports and maps to his face in a heartbeat. The assorted military officers greeted him with crisp salutes, which he returned, before they quickly turned tail and exited the tent with a glint in their eyes and a gait in their step that could have been the barest beginnings of fear. Alone, the man in the suit took a seat and picked up the military issue telephone; the boys had gotten a secure line to HQ set up in near record time. After a few moments of silence, there was an answer, and the man began.

"Yes sir, the prisoner has proven quite...pliable. Gave me names, locations, but I know he's holding more back. Give me a little more time with him and we'll have-what? When?" In an instance, the agent's facade of calm cool and collected melted away, anger seeping into his country drawl. He shook his head and gritted his teeth. "Damn him, damn him to hell! He's already mobilized the strike team? That boy," he spat, "is using a national security crisis to make a power play. We haven't even finished tracking down the," his superior cut him off, and the man's voice faltered for a moment, but he continued. "I, yes sir, I realize this is my responsibility. No sir, it won't happen again."

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yes sir, we have enough information to move on the targets. The prisoner has provided us with names and known aliases for both, and an address for one of them." The agent swallowed, hard. "Yes sir. We move on Jack Ryan within the hour."

Hanging up the phone, the agent wiped a bead of cold sweat from his brow, and took a moment to compose himself, recovering from what could have been the barest beginnings of fear.

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With a groan, Eleanor blinked thrice, and her vision began to return. Her head ached, ached terribly, and she tried to sit up, only for a rough hand to push her, gently, back down. She became aware of the cushions beneath her, and wondered where she was, as the figure standing over her began to sharpen into clarity. It was Jack, his mouth drawn tight, eyes ablaze.

"What happened?" he demanded, through clenched teeth, with a fury she had never seen.

"I, I don't, I can't," she stuttered, trying, desperately trying to understand how she had ended up here. And then she remembered.

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The door had rang, again, and thinking their visitor just as harmless as the last, she had offered to answer it, while Jack's daughters had busied themselves washing and feeding the little girls. Like a fool, she had opened the door without even bothering to look through the peephole. The wooden portal swung open, and a scrappy man with a face like a Splicer and a raggedy trench coat stood before her. A look of bemusement seemed to cross his face.

"You're not on my list, my sweet," he said to her with a grotesque smile, his voice nauseating, sugary sweet. His grin twisted into a snarl. "Poor you!"

In the blink of an eye, the man had a length of heavy pipe in his hand, and the next second it was swinging towards her. She screamed, and moved to stop it, but to no avail. With a crunch, the bludgeon connected with her temple, and then there was nothing but blackness. The rest was like a dream, brief, fleeting lapses into and out of consciousness. There were screams, crashes, and tears, and she wanted to move, wanted to get up, but all she could do was lay there on the entry hall floor, in a puddle of her own blood, and stare up at the ceiling. She would she shadows, hear the groan of the wooden floor, but the man was gone from her vision until the very end. At last he reappeared, Masha slung over his shoulder, limp, like a sack of grain. He smiled devilishly at her.

"You're a tenacious one, aren't you," he told her, chidingly. "We'll have to break you of that habit." This time it was slow, agonizingly slow, and still there was nothing she could do. The man dropped Masha, and kicked the door shut before producing a long, gleaming knife from the folds of his trench coat. With gusto, he tied a bow of crimson ribbon about it, a note written on cardstock tied to that. "Send my regards to Mr. Ryan, my dear." The knife slashed downwards, a searing pain tore through her belly, and then the blackness returned.

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She told all of this to Jack, who sat, fuming. When she was done, he spoke.

"You we're lying in the hallway when I got back, whole floor soaked in blood. Part of you skull was caved in, and you had this," he held up the now crimson knife with its festive decor, "stuck to the hilt in your stomach. If it wasn't for that healing factor the ADAM slugs give you, you'd be dead."

Eleanor was at a loss for words. He tongue felt as lead in her mouth, her lips numb and useless. "What, what about the others?" she finally asked.

Jack clenched his jaw. "The little girls are safe. They were," he faltered for a moment, "they were tied up, and scared to death, but unharmed."

Eleanor saw the pain in his eyes, and she knew without asking what had happened.

"They're gone, aren't they?" she asked, softly.

Jack could only nod, hot tears snaking down his rage contorted face.

"All five," he growled, through anger, sorrow, and fury. "He took all of them."

With a groan, Eleanor forced herself to sit up, only for sharp pains to shoot through her skull and stomach. Suddenly she became aware of the thick bandages wrapped around those parts. She turned to face Jack, whose eyes were glued to the note that had been attached to the knife. "Why?" she asked, simply. "Who would do this?"

Roughly, the man shoved the paper into her hands, and stormed towards the basement, where she knew he kept his things from Rapture. She scanned the paper quickly.

_Come alone, and leave your toys at home, else your beauties will make pretty corpses._

The message was scrawled in a wild, almost childish handwriting, with an address in the dockyards hastily added in below. She shuddered at the sight of the knife, at the thought that its long, curving blade had been stuck in her stomach. Jack returned a minute later, with a pistol and a red, scratched wrench tucked into his belt. "What are you going to do?" she asked, the near manic glint in his eye terrifying.

He turned, and face her calmly. "You stay here with the little girls," he commanded, his face darkening , "I'm going to get my daughters back."

With that, Jack Ryan plucked the note with the address from her hands, and stormed out the door, leaving the girl to fear for the future. She wished she could do more, and tried to rise, only for a searing pain to burn through her head.

When the agony faded, she resigned herself to sitting on the couch for the time being, and thinking about what had happened, about Jack and his family. About the fury she had seen behind his eyes. For all the differences between the two men, she could not help but think of her own Father, and his trials to reach her. As she sat here, battered and bloodied, she could not help but wonder if she had done the right thing, if all the pain and suffering she had caused was worth it. To look back on all the death and destruction she had caused in her pursuit of freedom, the lives lost, the torment she went through, that _Father_ went through; all of it only seemed to give credence to her mother's teachings. The evils of the self, and self-serving actions that Sofia Lamb had decried had been proven by her own daughter. Seeing Jack's torment only served to drive the point home, and she could only wonder how much pain she had but her own Father through. All of his agony, all of his pain, his rage, all of it was because of her. Her fault. Her greed, her selfishness, was what had put the person she loved most in the world through hell. It may have even killed him. And yet despite it all, she still yearned to see him, to hug him and be held, for him to protect her, and for that she despised herself. With a shudder, Eleanor felt tears begin to run down her cheeks, and she prayed to whatever god above that would listen that her Father found his peace. Even if it was without her.

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With a spasm of pain, Delta slumped against his comrade as the elevator continued its agonizingly slow ascent, and Sigma hurried to catch him, grunting in what could have been annoyance or concern. The familiar pains wracked his body, his vision tinged red and pink, and the metal man fought through it to seize the last of the special hypos Tenenbaum had brewed for him and inject it. A few seconds later, the attack stopped, and breathing heavily, the Big Daddy stood by his own power once more, letting the hypo fall away and shatter. Sigma's porthole was as blank and expressionless as his own, but he liked to think that there was concern beneath it, which he brushed off. Looking up, the end of the shaft was in sight, as the doors that topped it folded open and let the lights and sounds of mayhem greeted them.

Creepers screamed and clawed and fought. Machines grumbled to life and lights crackled. But above all of it, drowning out all other sounds, was the _music_. The haunting tones of a long dead orchestra, captured forever on vinyl, blared out from speakers, the voices of the strings, horns, and percussion both enchanting and horrifying. At long last, the elevator reached its destination, and the two Big Daddies stepped off to survey their surroundings. The room was wide, and round, filled with shuttered and barred storefronts and theaters, and with a central staircase dominating its middle immediately in front of them. A balcony ringed around it on the second floor, doubtless holding more of the same. What commanded the twin Alpha series' attention though was the horror they beheld next to them.

They were no strangers to the grotesque plastered bodies posed about the district, but the display alongside the elevator put them all to shame. Over half a dozen of them unfortunate souls had been doused in plaster, with masquerade rabbit masks glued to their faces, posed in such a way as to serve as holders for four oversized pictures, each more grisly than the last.

A charred, battered corpse laid out on a stage, with the shattered remains of a spotlight and a piano bench alongside him. A masked man sat slumped against an icy wall, his blood dark on the pale frost. The pictures were horrifying, dark tableaus of death put high on a pedestal for all to see.

Having had enough of the morbid display, Delta stepped down from the stage they had been brought to, and Sigma followed. Spotting the door labeled _Transportation on_ the far side of the room, the metal man hurried that way, with Sigma hot on his heels, hoping to escape this place before the Creepers took notice of them again. It was not to be.

With a earsplitting screech, rusted steel blast doors slid down like the blade of some giant guillotine, cutting of any hope they had of escape. Delta reeled away from the steel as it crashed downwards ,only to watch as one by one, every other door in the great central chamber met a similar fate. With a sudden burst of static, the music was cut off, replaced by the voice of a madman.

"What have we here," it hissed over the speakers, the voice a soft rasp. It quavered and tittered wildly, like the Creepers with their dark whispers. "Two little _rats_, caught in a trap, hmm?"

Delta was at once reminded of the insane babblings of Gil Alexander, Lamb's first, failed, 'Utopian'. Both of these men, for it was almost certainly a man, bore the mark of intense ADAM sickness. The crazed voice, so soft and smooth, yet so utterly mad, continued on.

"Do you know what we do to rats," he started, voice like silken noose, inviting yet repulsive. "We crush them!" His ultimatum screamed, the man faded out with a burst of giggles, and the music returned. So did the Creepers.

Calling out their forlorn rhymes and verses, the blind, clawed demons burst out from shuttered storefronts and holes in the wall, crawling on walls and ceilings like Spider Splicers with their hooked talons and wiry strength. They had no shadows to hide in this time, and it seemed the creatures knew that as much as their intended victims did. As soon as the Big Daddies were within reach, the monsters howled and screamed, peeling back papery lips to show their jagged, rotten teeth, and pounced.

The music blared as the Splicers screamed. Delta's first attacker was skewered with a harpoon mid leap, the spear piercing its belly as it screamed. A half second later the rockets on its end ignited, sending the unwilling passenger on a wild flight before the projectile exploded with a basso boom to rival the orchestra's drums, and gobbets of flaming flesh rained down. The Big Daddy grunted with satisfaction and turned to face his next opponent, loading in a regular harpoon to conserve ammo, when a blur of rags and claws took him from the side, knocking him to the ground and pinning him as grisly talons raked his chest. Roaring in fury, the metal man struggled and flailed as the violins lamented some unspoken tragedy, but with the awkward angle he was trapped at the beast was impossible to dislodge. Through the bloodied glass of his porthole he could see the Creeper's lumpy, eyeless face, its smile spread in a wide grin. A heartbeat and a shotgun blast later, it was mess of bloody pulp and white bone, and the Splicer went limp on top of him.

Grunting, the Big Daddy hauled himself to his feet with Sigma's help, before loosing a spear at a Creeper behind his savior who seemed intent on using the same tactic as his own attacker. The harpoon shot through the monster's neck with a spray of blood, and the creature clawed pitifully at with as it gurgled and gasped and choked to death on its own blood.

Still the slaughter continued, Daddy and Splicer dancing across the floor to the music of masters long dead. Ballets, waltzes, and scherzos blared as Creepers died screaming, impaled, ignited, and riddled with bullets. Yet still they came.

A pair of the beasts scampered by the stage that the Alphas had arrived on, with its dark display, and without a second thought Sigma fired a rocket towards them. The explosion ripped the Creepers to shreds, and blasted the plastered picture holders to pieces. The music broke away in a burst of static, and the voice returned with a vengeance.

"What have you done!" it screamed, with a hiss like nails on a chalkboard. "Vandals! Philistines! _Doubters!" _the madman roared. "My masterpiece, my Quadtych. It's ruined! My legacy, burnt to ashes!"

As the madman shouted, the battle raged on. "_He_ sent you," the man hissed over the speakers as Delta smashed a Creeper's head into the railing of the great staircase in the chamber's center. "He sent you to finish the job, didn't he? Didn't he?" The man broke down into a flurry of gurgling gasps that could have been rage, sorrow, or both. "I led him through the magic of my domain," he lamented, as Sigma blasted Creepers with his laser, "the enchantments of Fort Frolic, opened my home to him. And how does he repay me, my little moth? With a load of buckshot to the chest! Left me bleeding and clinging to life in my own damn kitchen!" The voice roared. "And now he doesn't even have the decency to finish the job himself?"

The man was screaming and cursing, and the attacks of the Creepers were beginning to taper off, the blind monsters crippled by light and chastised by losses. The twin Alphas gave them a parting gift of machine gun fire. Yet still the man ranted over the loudspeakers.

"He didn't kill me. Oh no, no no no no. He only made me _stronger_. I returned to the Fort, my home, my sanctuary, and grew strong. Grew strong in the beauty of the blackness, the perfection of darkness!" He was panting now, the silky smooth of his voice lost to feral growls. "The artist must subvert the senses, and how better than the pure, unsullied, absence of light?" He almost giggled. "Its perfect. Pure. _Beautiful."_ The laughter turned to a roar. "But you've taken even that away. You ruin everything. Everything! Damned doubters!"

The last of the Creepers had fled, and the two Big Daddies stood back to back, looking about wildly for the man over the speakers, knowing an attack was on its way. There came a long pause, but at last the voice returned.

"I guess there's only one thing for it," the man said, his cool composure and silken tone recovered. "If you want something done right, best do it yourself."

With that the speakers cut out, and music returned, but of a different sort. Gone was the rich, full sound of the orchestra, replaced by a lone, mournful piano. It started soft, demure. A rolling trill of minor keys, up and down, up and down, until at last the came a sharper note and the song roared to life in a true crescendo. It was then that the man made his appearance.

With a blood red cloud of smoke like any Houdini Splicer, the voice's owner appeared at the top of the stairs, but it became clear that this was no ordinary foe. No creature that ruled over the Creepers could be. He was tall and gaunt like his subjects, almost of height with the Big Daddies he faced, with long strong claws peeking out from tattered sleeves and trousers. The faded, shredded remains of a fine suit hung to his pale and elongated frame, but the worst of it all was his face. A mask hid the top half of his face, a rabbit mask with its upturned nose and long pointed ears, with seething, hate-filled orbs looking out through eyeholes.

"Do you know what you've done?" the man roared as his arms burst into flame, orbs of fire coalescing in his hands. "Do you know who I am?" With a flourish, he raised his arms up high and flung fireballs at his victims. "I'm Sander fucking Cohen, and I will not be judged by the likes of you!"

The twin Alphas dodged and ducked, and Delta caught one of the flaming projectiles in a telekinetic grip, but when his turned to return it to sender, the man was gone, disappeared in a puff crimson smoke. The piano played on, with roaring highs and whispering lows, trilling notes haunting and enthralling. The Big Daddies peered around the room for the telltale cloud of smoke that would mark their target's return. It came at last, but all too quickly. In the blink of an eye, Cohen was there and gone, a new volley of flaming death his parting gift.

And so it went. The music played, Cohen darted in and out of tangibility, raking his foes with claws and volleying them with fire, and the Big Daddies fought the hardest to get a hit in, but the man was a ghost. A babbling, foul mouthed ghost, whose words fought to be heard over the piano that echoed through the hall.

"Look at me, you rats!" he screamed, appearing upon the stage, atop the ruins of his masterpiece. "LOOK AT ME!"

He seemed to frequent the spot, Delta noted, in a corner of his mind detached from the battle. It was instinctive, the movements the combat, all second nature. He hauled out his launcher and loaded in a proximity mine, and Sigma seemed to get the hint. The mine whistled as it flew through the air, burying itself amongst the rubble and activating, and Sigma loaded a special power cell into his laser. Delta armed himself with his machine gun, and returned to their normal tactics. The trap had been set; now they needed bait. If this Cohen was goaded enough, he'd return to his familiar haunting grounds.

The dance of fire and bullets raged on, with the Alphas struggling to catch their prey. At last though, Cohen fell for it.

With gusto, he burst to existence atop the remains of his art. "I don't need any of you," he roared, "I am the master, the artist, the maestro of the soul and I-"

His tirade was cut off by an explosion from beneath him, throwing the madman onto his back. The Big Daddies wasted no time. Sigma pulled in the trigger on his laser, and the whole weapon began to glow and shake with energy. Delta rushed the stage, spear gun in one hand, hellfire in another.

Cohen scrambled to his feet in a daze, only for the full fury of the ion laser to blast him in the chest, vaporizing his clothes and scorching his thick skin as he screamed a roasted. He struggled to rise once more, but Delta was upon him. Inhuman punches and kicks rained down on the writhing creature, battering and bloodying him. Roaring, the original Big Daddy fed his fury, his frustration, his rage and his sorrow into the blows, until at last the metal man took hold of his throat in a gauntleted hand and hauled him up by it.

Cohen choked and sputtered, his broken and shattered arms useless. The rabbit mask had fallen away, broken and blackened, to reveal a face as hideous as the rest of the Creepers the Splicer ruled. His flesh was colorless, his nose a pair of slits, and lumpy, bulbous tumors littered his face. A lopsided mouth full of broken and splintered teeth oozed bloody spittle from its corners, the wispy remains of a moustache hanging limply above it. A trace of humanity remained in this one though.

Sander Cohen's eyes, beady pits of hatred, had softened and clouded, and what could have been a smile crept across his face as Delta pushed the barrel of his harpoon gun against the Splicer's chest, where his black heart should lay.

"The music," he forced, in wheeze. "Can you hear it? Isn't it," he coughed and gasped for air, bloody spraying form his mouth as he gurgled. "Isn't it marvelous?" The scherzo that had played across their battle was rising to its crescendo, pounding and roaring its way to an inevitable conclusion. Cohen looked at him with a crazed twinkle in his eye. "Isn't it?" he manage, sucking in his final breaths.

Delta nodded. The final chord struck, the gun recoiled, and Sander Cohen breathed his last.

Panting, Delta stepped off the stage, leaving the master of Fort Frolic strung up like a trophy atop the ruins of his work. The halls of the Fort were eerily silent, and Sigma finally broke it, gesturing towards the sealed doors. Delta found a weakened section of wall, and revved his drill; it was high time they returned to Tenenbaum.

**End Chaper. Phew. That was fun. Hoped you guys enjoyed it. Please review. Your feedback just helps me improve this. Also as a side note, thank you to all who do review, and know that I do try and get back to everyone who does. If you have Private Messaging for this site disabled though, I can't do that. **

** This chapter drew a lot from the level Fort Frolic in the original Bioshock, and if you're not familiar with it, this chapter may be a bit confusing for you, so for that I apologize. As a side note, the piano song I was trying (and failing) to describe is an actual song from the Bioshock soundtrack. Here's a link for it. If you like piano music, I highly recommend it. **

.com/watch?v=Gq2MtuWaMU4

**If that doesn't work, just go to YouTube and search Cohen's scherzo no.7. It's a great piece of music from a great game.**

** Anyways, thanks to all, and hope you liked it. Til next time. **


	36. Lost Lives

**Disclaimer: I don't own nothing (Unless you count the double negative, which means I DO own it. Fun with grammar). All joking aside, please don't sue me :)**

**Anyways, let me apologize for the delay, dear readers. Seeing as I have no witty excuse to give besides a nice dose of writer's block and a booked schedule, I sincerely hope I didn't let things get too stale for you all. Sorry**

**Ok, now that I'm done whining, on to the story! At long last, Delta and company are returning to Tenebaum's base to prepare their escape, and Delta has a date with a certain reporter who may know of his origins. Although with submarines closing in from both the United States and the Soviet Union, is may be a short lived reunion. Meanwhile, on the surface, Orrin Oscar Lutwidge has kidnapped Jack's daughters, and dared him to come after him, something our wrench wielding hero is all to happy to oblige him. But with the CIA closing in on these two, this is one clash that may end sour for both parties. **

**Will Delta learn the truth of Johnny Topside? Why am I asking you all these questions? Why don't you just skip this crap and read the story already?**

The train braked at the station with a mighty hiss, and as he looked out at the main station of the Atlantic Express, Delta felt his hand drift almost subconsciously to the waterproofed pocket on his suit. He knew what lied within it; a slip of newspaper, aged and cracked and pitiful. It was his story, his past, his life, before Fontaine's doctors and Ryan's thugs took it away from him with a false crimes and a needle. Here, within this station, was the one man who could unlock it for him once more, the one man who show to him the secrets of Johnny Topside. The one man in the world he wanted dead more than any other. Stanley Poole; traitor, coward, and snitch, who'd sold an innocent man and a terrified little girl to a devil in a pinstriped suit, then damned a whole city district to drown, all to cover his crimes. Delta had seen his handiwork; Dionysus Park was a waterlogged graveyard, and the unspeakable evils Fontaine had visited upon himself and Eleanor….Eleanor, he thought with a sudden pain, a pain that exploded into unbearable agony that wracked his body. With a long, mournful cry, the Big Daddy fell to his hands and knees, body quaking, his vision tinged red and pink.

In some far distant part of his consciousness, he was aware of the panic going on around him. Carnegie bellowed orders to find the doctor, Alice was in fits of sobs. Limp as a ragdoll, he felt Sigma haul him back to his feet, only to collapse back to the ground in heap as soon as the support was gone, like a puppet with its strings cut. Like a metal log, Delta toppled onto his back as the world around him span and swam in a sea of red. The pain was everywhere, inescapable, mind-numbing. Through it all though, the Alpha found one moment of clarity. _Eleanor_, he thought, with a twitch and a shudder, as the world began to go black. _My daughter…._

With a roar, Delta shot straight up as fire coursed through his veins, burning away the pain and agony of the attack, his heart racing, every fiber of his being trembling with energy. As quickly as it began though, it ended, and Delta returned to his senses. He saw the empty hypo sticking from the IV port in his arm, and the look of exhausted relief upon Tenenbaum's face as she stood over him.

"Herr Delta," she said, with a tired, wry smile. "You certainly know how to make an entrance." The smile began to fade though as she gestured towards the empty hypo. "We were able to inject you with more of the formula containing Eleanor's pheromone signature, to keep your organs from shutting down. Along with enough adrenaline for a small elephant"

Groaning as he came down from the chemical induced high, the Big Daddy raised himself on unsteady feet, wobbling once or twice, before the world stopped spinning and his balance returned. Tenenbaum sighed in relief.

"You are lucky to be alive, Herr Delta. As we are lucky to have you with us. Go and rest now, my friend. Michael and I will take care of things."

Michael. It took the Big Daddy a moment to realize the doctor was referring to Carnegie. He nodded nonetheless, though he did not intend to rest. He had an appointment with a certain former reporter. And death itself wouldn't stop him.

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It was a strange sense of déjà vu for Sigma as he arranged his meager possessions in the corner of the station claimed as "his". The creeping sense of familiarity and shadow memories were torment, a taunting call that this was not his first home, not his first life. A life without Pearl.

Pearl. Of the few scant things he had brought with him from the Den, Pearl's photo was his most precious. Faded and stained, the sepia print photograph still showed her in all her splendor, hat tilted upon her head, a laughing smile on her lips. With trembling hands, and a sense of reverence, like some lost priceless treasure, the Big Daddy placed it upon a flat topped crate near his "bed", the mess of shipping pallets and torn mattresses he had claimed for some scant comfort. Every recording with him that touched upon her, every lost memory, was arrayed around it. With a trembling hand, he extended a gloved finger to press down on the play button, but pulled back at the last minute, and fell to his knees. He didn't notice his spectator until she walked up beside him, her cane clicking on the tiled floor. Rising to his feet, Sigma turned to face Grace Holloway. Hard lines cut by age and decades in hell furrowed across her face as her eyes moved languidly from the photo to the metal man before her.

"I guess there's a man inside those suits after all," she said softly, at last, a look of sympathy in her eyes, boring into the glass of his porthole. She pointed towards the picture with her cane, the carved bird of its handle fitting her hand like glove. "An animal can't feel that kind of pain," she continued, sad, small smile on her lips. "Monsters don't grieve. "

With a poise and elegance befitting of her name, Grace lowered herself onto a nearby bench, and sat facing the faceless man. "Your wife, before all," she waved her hand at him, "this?"

Sigma could only nod as he stared blankly at the woman, trying to read her. Her eyes were proud, but dimmed by some long aching pain. His visage was blank glass, and the woman received no response, but Grace continued, unabated.

"I know what its like to lose someone, Tin Man." She gestured to the others in the station. "We all do. And I know what hanging on to all that pain and grief can do to you." The older woman shifted slightly in her seat, and stared straight into the metal man's porthole. "It turns you bitter, Tin Man. Twists you up inside, so bad, any kind of evil can just latch right on." Grace's face fell slightly, and she looked away, if only for a moment, before she shook her head and met the Big Daddy's gaze once more. She sighed. "We need you two in top condition," she said, finally, "or at least the Doc tells me so. I don't know nothing about machines and weapons, or fighting," the pride returned to her eyes, "but I know pain. And I know what it can do."

Shaking her head rapping her cane as she rose, Grace Holloway turned to leave. "Knew this was a bad idea," she muttered under her breath, before facing Sigma for a final time. "Doctor Tenenbaum told me all about you, Mr. Porter." The name felt strange upon her tongue, as if the very act of giving a name to Rapture's golems of flesh and steel were abhorrent in and of itself. "Learn to let go, for your own sake. And ours."

With that, the woman slowly walked across the station floor bake to the ticket booth, bent but not broken, destitute yet proud. Sigma watched her leave, and then turned to Pearl's picture. He stared at it, and time flowed on without a care in the world. He could not say how long he sat there. Seconds, minutes, hours; it mattered not to the man within the monster. He stared at the picture in silence, until at last, with trembling fingers, he turned it over, face down. Eyes burning beneath his glass face, the Big Daddy turned away in shame. There would be time for the past, time for grief. But not now. Not in this hell.

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Stanley Poole broke into a cold sweat when Subject Delta rounded the corner that led to his secluded section of the station. There was no face to betray emotion, but the metal man's gait, his posture, his aura, all seemed to radiate a barely contained rage. In an instant, the newsman knew what had occurred. Delta _knew_. He scrambled for some escape, but the Big Daddy was nearly on top of him, stomping forward with every booted footstep. Sweating and shaking, Poole backpedaled, and backpedaled, until all too quickly his back met the cold gray wall. A fist like a wrecking ball swung towards him, and the little man screamed, only for the gauntleted hand to crash into the tile a half inch from his head. With brusque, deft motions, the Big Daddy's other hand swept up towards the man's face, a piece of newspaper in hand. The headline shattered any last trace of hope in Poole's mind.

_ Oh shit,_ is what he thought. "Oh that, nothing but a fluff piece. No substance to it really," is what he said, with a nervous chuckle.

Delta roared, and slammed the wall with his fist once more, bits of dust flying up from the impact.

Poole cringed and gave a distinctly unmanly whimper. "Alright, alright I'll talk," he screamed, voice jumping a few octaves. "I-Information is power. I was holding onto this one as a last resort, my, my ace in the hole." He gave a nervous smile full of yellow teeth. "You. You wouldn't begrudge me my back up plan, would you, buddy? After all I've done to help you?"

Delta snarled; it seemed Poole's memory was as selective as his loyalty. In one swift motion, he freed his fist form the wall, took hold of Poole's shirt, and tossed the man to the floor, before laying a boot upon his chest. He held the newspaper unfurled like a sail before the terrified man, and bellowed a grunt that commanded "talk".

Poole swallowed hard, and nodded, and as Delta released his boot the man sputtered and coughed, forcing himself into a seated position. "Alright," he wheezed. "I'll tell." Wiping a bit of phlegm he had hocked up with the sleeve of his shirt, the pasty, weasel of a man began his tale.

"You know how you got here, right? Big shot deep sea diver, getting stranded down here, and then Ryan getting paranoid enough to contract Sinclair to disappear you. But you want what was before all that, don't you?"

It seemed, for a split second, that Stanley Poole grew a backbone, as his face twisted into a sneer.

"Yah," he said, finally accepting that it was perhaps his day to die, and resolving to enjoy it, "yah you want who you were. Not Subject Delta, or Johnny Topside, but the man and the life that you lost the second you stepped foot in this rat hole." Poole shook his head, with a half wheezed laugh. "The thing though, Johnny, is you're coming here to find out your past because you want to know that you weren't always the monster you are down here. Problem is, and here's the real kicker, is that you were just as ugly topside as you are down here."

Poole shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. "The bit in the paper there," he continued, pointing to it, "ain't got a drop of truth in it. A load of bullshit we threw together to draw the suckers into reading. We played up the story of the glamorous Johnny Topside, because the real McCoy didn't cut it. You want your precious life story? Here it is."

The cowardice and self-service of Stanley Poole had melted and stewed into a bitter fatalism. Delta could see it in his eyes; the man knew this was the end of the line, that no more scam or cover up could stave of destiny, and he was determined to make it just as painful for his executioner. The metal man knew he should end the pathetic waste of space, should unload into him with a shotgun shell, but he couldn't, the newsman had him enthralled.

"Here's the life of the _glorious_ Johnny Topside," he spat. "That interview was the last you ever gave. You sat down with me, spilled your guts hoping to atone for all you've done, and then Sinclair's boys came out from the hall and dragged you away. The sob story you told though," the man gave his wheezing laugh once again. "Your mama was a New York City escort, a nice classy whore who serviced all the big wigs, right up until she got herself knocked up, and the madam of the escort service kicked her out. Then she was just a whore. Well, a couple of years later all those nasty little bugs gals in her line of work tend to pick up caught up with her, and you were on the streets. You started rolling with a street gang, practicing the noble art of chucking bricks through shop windows and shaking down old ladies for pocket change."

Poole shrugged. "Guess a shred of conscience caught up with you though, cause when old Adolf started shaking thing s up over in Europe, you tried joining up with the service. Lying about your age never worked, so you didn't get in till right before they dropped the nukes. You saw some action in Korea though, and here's where things get good. Apparently, you went a little bit postal out there, shooting up a couple of civvies during and engagement with the Chinamen. You were staring down the barrel of a court marshal, and dishonorable discharge, until Uncle Sam came through with an offer. See, the feds were racing to keep one step ahead of the Ruskies, and Joe Stalin, and they needed men to test their toys. There was the deal. You tried out the equipment, and they didn't throw you out on your ass. That's how you ended up in that diving bell, big boy. You got stuck as a monster down here, because you were the scum of the earth up there. That what you wanted to hear?"

Poole gave a bitter laugh, only for a backhand from Delta to silence him and send him sprawling.

Coughing and cursing, Poole raised himself on unsteady feet. "Do it," he spat. "Finish me off. End this, all of this!" The fire in his eyes smoldered, and his voice wavered. "Do it," he commanded, more cowed then before. "Do it before I try and run from it…again." Eyes downcast and face dour, Stanley Poole seated himself on a chunk of masonry, his head between his hands, and lit himself one last cigarette.

"Do it," he said, in a soft, weak voice, between drags of his smoke, as he close his eyes and prepared to die.

Delta stood still as a statue. For a moment, he considered it. Considered putting a bullet in the man's skull, before deciding he wasn't worth the ammo. In silence, he turned and walked away, Poole's accusations of cowardice echoing in his ears until the man was out of earshot, but even then his words haunted the metal man.

Thug, criminal, whoreson, scum; they flitted through his mind, mingling with monster, and freak, and above it all the ghastly image of his own face. In silence, Delta walked.

Had he never truly had any happiness in life? No lost family, no forgotten life? Had he been nothing but a street thug, whom no one would mourn? He didn't even care to learn the name of the man he had been. Oblivious to the worrisome glances Alice and Carnegie shot him, Delta walked on, exiting the station and sitting in silence by himself.

Delta sat, and pondered his lives, both above the sea and below. His fears had been confirmed; there was no goodness within him, no good and great man beneath his metal shell. He had no family, no friends, nothing of importance…except Eleanor, and the survivors he shared this perdition with. He would see them to safety, he resolved, find Eleanor and insure her happiness, and then…then, there was nothing else left for him to live for.

**End chapter. Sorry for the delay folks. Been a bit busy. Hope you enjoyed this one. No action, I know, but we DID just have "an evening with Sander Cohen" after all. Please review! Things are starting to wind down here, and I'm always eager for feedback. Till next time folks**


	37. Bury the Hatchet

**Disclaimer: I. Own. Nothing. Please, corporate lawyers, don't come chasing after me.**

**Hey there, world. Did'ya miss me? I apologize for the long delay. Been quite swamped with work, family, and life in general really. But I'm back! Now, when we last left off…**

** Stunning revelations under the sea. Both Delta and Sigma, having survived their return to the Atlantic Express with Carnegie and company in tow, are facing various existential crises as the doctor and the pragmatic survivors attempt to plan their escape from Rapture. **

** Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, the ambitious young commander of the US Office of Naval Intelligence has ordered an American military unit to investigate the mysteries of northern Atlantic, where rumors abound of a lost city. He hopes to beat the similar Soviet task force dispatched for the same reason, in addition to winning himself personal glory, much to the chagrin of more senior officials. **

** Meanwhile meanwhile (Can you stack those? Oh well, too late), Jack has only just escaped the captivity of a Soviet Spetsnaz special forces team, only to return home and find Eleanor incapacitated, and his girls kidnapped. Leaving the wounded Eleanor back at the safety of his home with the rest of the rescued former Little Sisters, in a rage, he has set off rescue his daughters from the clutches of their captor; Orrin Oscar Lutwidge.**

** Meanwhile, meanwhile, meanwhile (Third time's the charm), the Pawn rests in the hands of the CIA, having recovered him from the Spetsnaz infiltration team in a bloody shootout. He knows things they want, and their best "persuaders" have been brought in to wring the information from him. **

** Phew. Good Lord, this story has gotten a bit tangled. Things are coming towards their climax, though. As much as it pains me to say, Sea of Broken Dreams only has a few chapters left in it before our big finale. That being said, I want YOU, yes YOU the reader, to weigh in on how you think things should end. I want to hear your opinions. Tragic? Bitter sweet? Sugar sweet? Something in between? Let me know in your reviews. Ok. I think I've talked long enough now. Enjoy, folks.**

Death stalked the dockyards of New York, a scarred, pitted, blood red wrench in hand. Long-legged strides carried Jack Ryan to his target, his eyes smoldering pits of rage. He would find this Lutwidge, this monster that had taken his children. He would find him, and the man would die.

The weight of the wrench in his hand sent shivers up his arm. Frost, the remnants of Rapturian Gene Tonics, slowly crept across the surface of the tool, growing out from the tips of his fingers. He felt no cold, though, from the wrench nor the air. Nothing but hatred, a seething fury.

With a deep breath, he tucked away the wrench, joining his pistol out of sight. The warehouse the note had indicated was within sight, its wide doors ajar ever so slightly. The dust and rust that clung the warehouse like a heavy coat had been disturbed there recently. Mouth in a snarl, Jack headed in. And if he had his way, Lutwidge wouldn't be coming out.

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The USS Cain sliced through the icy waters of the North Atlantic like a steel leviathan, stalking its prey. Captain Ethan Gregor was growing impatient. Once more, he pored over the coordinates he had been given, and once more he silently cursed. There was nothing here, nothing but a trench, a drunken zigzag across the seafloor like an open wound. A sudden knock came at his door, the soft hum of the engines overlaying his mild cursing and the rapping of the steel.

"Come in," he answered, grumbling over his notes.

The heavy door swung open with a creak, and a pale-faced egghead, a science liaison the CIA had saddled him with, stood in its place. "Captain," he said, voice quivering. "There's something you need to see."

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It had not ben easy, but several scavenging trips and a great many hours later, a working bathysphere big enough for its small crowd of passengers sat in the loading bay of the Atlantic Express. Amir took a seat, wiping the grease from his face and hands with a dirty rag.

"Well," he started, drily, "it's not first class, but it will get us to land in one piece."

The sub had been found rusting the lowest bays of the Atlantic Express, half sunken and occupied by a particularly irritable crab. The bathysphere's discovery had promptly been celebrated with crab soup. It had taken the better part of two days, but with the Big Daddies and Alice scavenging for parts whilst Amir and Carnegie tended to the repairs, the submersible was in working condition soon enough. Isolation had saved it from the majority of times ravishing, but what the young man had said was true; the vehicle was far from pretty. Fresh weld marks and dents littered the bathysphere's surface but the remains of a crudely, lewdly, painted mermaid were still barely visible against streaks of rust. One final test remained, however

Cracking his neck, Amir walked over to the sub with everyone watching, took hold of small control box connected to it via a corroded cable, and flipped a switch. A small click was heard from the door, and after that, nothing but silence. No pops, cracks, or hisses. Slowly, the engine hummed to life, and cheers erupted throughout the small crowd.

Amir nodded approval. "Readings look good," he announced, eyes fixed upon the control panel and meters in his hand. "Cabin pressure is stable, which means we shouldn't be springing any leaks once we launch." He looked up, at last, an almost imperceptible smile playing over his lips. "Give me time to gas her up, then we can load the cargo and get the hell out of here."

Tenenbaum nodded approvingly, a faint spark of hope igniting in her world-weary eyes. "This is good," she said aloud, smoothing her wrinkled skirt and stained blouse. "Once we leave, the contacts I established in the United States the first time should be able to help us reenter society…discreetly."

The looks she received ranged from mild pessimism to outright incredulity, especially after first viewing the "discreteness" of the two Big Daddies. Seeing their lack of enthusiasm, the doctor hurried to reassure them. "Have faith, my friends," she couched, "trust in me."

With that utterance, Carnegie stormed off, and with a flustered sigh, the German doctor followed, leaving the rest of the survivors behind at the sub, and thoroughly confused.

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"Michael," Tenenbaum commanded, her voice shrill, "stop right there!" Her frail frame winded ever so slightly, she took a moment to catch her breath before continuing. "What is wrong? I cannot do this without your support; these people trust you, look up to you." The doctor shook her head. "What is wrong? Do you not wish to leave this hell?"

Carnegie was silent for a long time, his face a stony mask, but his eyes ablaze. "Do you know," he said at last, "what happened the last time you said those words to me?" His voice was level, a barely contained rage bubbling beneath its surface. "I trusted you," he spat, trembling. "I trusted you when you first came to me, and you know what it got me?"

"Michael, I –" the doctor started, pathetically, but Carnegie did not give her the chance.

"My family is dead, you lying German bitch!" he screamed, a scar wrapped finger leveled at the wispy old woman. "The whole fucking city is dead or worse because of you!" The man shook his head, a single, bitter, twinkling tear snaking down his stubble covered cheek. "My wife," he hissed, "and my son, are dead because of _you._ Because I," he choked up, if only for a moment, "because _I _trusted you." In the blink of an eye and a deep breath, the sentimentality was gone.

"Let me make something amply clear to you, doctor," Carnegie continued, his voice ice. "I'll buy that you turned over a new leaf. I'll buy that you feel unspeakably awful for the things you've done. You should. But don't think for a second that I've forgiven you. Not in the slightest." His eyes darkened. "I hate your filthy Kraut guts with every fiber of my being, and if it weren't for you being part of the ticket out of here, I'd leave you to rot in this hole. Are we clear?"

Tenenbaum swallowed hard, and nodded, silently. Carnegie let loose a sigh, and his shoulders slumped, the tension in them dissolving with his rage. "I'll do my part, Doc," the man said, eyes still livid. "But you don't get to ask for my trust. Not after what you did. Not ever again."

Turning on his heel, Michael Carnegie left the frail doctor shaken and sorrowful, making a beeline for his quarters.

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For the first time in a great many years, Michael Carnegie got himself drunk. It wasn't difficult; bottles of all manner of liquors were abundant, even in a train station, the last remains of Rpature's lavish parties and galas. A great many had devolved to turpentine and vinegar, but a few finely aged spirits remained, and after some time searching, the rugged, weary old man settled into his corner, bottle in hand, and more at his feet. As time passed and the bottles emptied, memories returned to him unbidden, decades of pain, loosened by liquor.

_The war flitted by in flashes; blood soaked beaches and bloated corpses, the air heavy with the smell of burning diesel and fear. Bullets whizzed past his ears, mortars and grenades exploded in balls of fire and shrapnel, some closer than others. A mangled hand sent him out of Europe and back into Nina's arms._

_Nina_. Carnegie heaved, but held it down, taking another swig of aged whisky. _Sweet Nina, her lips full and lashes dark, a new verse always on her lips. That's what had got them down here, Mrs. Nina Carnegie, up and coming young poet of Boston, her verses as haunting as Poe's, to hear the critics tell. Their disappearance hardly went noticed among all the others, in the heat of the Great Vanishing. _

He heaved once more, and this time the contents of his stomach spilled out into the tracks, reeking something foul. He vomited again, before wiping the foulness from his mouth and hurling the bottle in his hand at the nearest train. It shattered with a mighty crack, broken glass and amber drink twinkling in the dim light for half a second before plummeting to the ground. Bile burnt the back of his throat.

_Ryan's utopia had had more than its share of problems, though. Jobs were scarce, especially with one bad hand. Income from Nina's poetry had been spotty at best. The work he had found down at Neptune's Bounty, however degrading, had been a godsend. Sorting through the day's catch left his hands cold, slippery, and cut up, and his clothes reeking of fish, but it paid the bills. _

The heaves passing him, Carnegie collapsed onto a rotten bench, stomach still sour and throat still burning. Blindly, he groped about until his hands settled on the jar of fresh water he kept with his things, and he drank deep of it, coughing and sputtering.

_Time went on, and he became a fixture down at the docks. Mike the fishmonger, Mike the cripple. All until that fateful day. A haul came back from a fisherman who'd gone out deeper than usual, his nets full of all kinds of oddities. Trash and all other unappetizing bits were thrown back to the sea, and it was his job to find them. An old boot here, a half decayed fish here; it was tedious, but methodical, his hands scooping through the mess laid out before him on the sorting table until they found something that didn't belong. Only today something found him. A sharp pain erupted in his left hand, his mangled hand, and withdrawing quickly, the man found a slimy wriggling creature attached, a strange sea slug, with patches glowing red. _

Groaning, Carnegie rubbed his temples, cursing his own stupidity and low tolerance for drink. His mind continued to wander, and he was gladdened that no one had sought him out yet. He was relieved that they had that much sense.

_It'd been hell getting the creature off his arm. He had stayed late for overtime, and no one remained to help him. Finally, with a wet pop, he managed to rip the slippery mollusk from his arm, a ropey strand of glistening slime strung from its sucking mouth to the cut on his hand. Cursing a blue streak, he'd thrown the wretched creature into a mason jar, and stored it for later, hoping perhaps some biologist would pay for it. They were always looking or new samples. Nursing a sudden ache in his arm, he'd finished his workload and hurried home._

Slumped in the bench, his head pounding, Carnegie heard the heavy sound of booted feet approaching him, Delta or Sigma, he reasoned. Somewhere, a part of him loathed to be seen like this, but a far more vocal portion drowned it out with a drunken lethargy and despondency. No, he thought to himself, I'll stay right here.

_The ache had become nigh unbearable by the time he returned home, taking to bed early. Nina had been out at an artists' retreat, invited to Dionysus Park to rub shoulders with her fellows, and competitors. Donny was staying at a friend's house. There was only him, alone, left to face the agony. Fevers and chills wracked his body, molten lead flowing through his veins one moment and ice the next. Sweat dripped from him in torrents as he screamed and gnashed his teeth while the bones in his mangle hand began to pop and crackle. Grating like rocks against each other, bone reshuffled and tendon reknit back into a form they had not known in years, slowly but surely returning to their proper form while their own screamed and thrashed. Agony overwhelmed him, and the world faded to black. The next thing he knew, Nina stood over him, concern in her eyes, and his left hand unbelievably, miraculously whole._

With a slow, heavy, measured pace, Subject Delta walked over to hardened survivor, now soaked and stinking of alcohol. Gently, he sat his bulk onto the bench alongside the man, and brushed away the small mountain of empty bottles with his foot, Carnegie watching his every move.

_It hadn't taken long for the tale of his impossible recovery to spread. Friends and gawkers would trickle in at work, asking to see it, and asking the story. He deflected their questioning, the agony his ordeal had entailed seared into his mind, and along with it, a tiny, creeping desire for more. The pain had been flecked with spots of pleasure, a euphoria mingled with the agony that a piece of him wanted to try once more, and that piece wanted to keep his secret for himself, even from Nina. Especially from Nina. The doctor had not been so easily swayed, however._

For a long time, the two men stared at each other, a pane of glass and a haze of alcohol separating them. Heaving a rumbling sigh, the Big Daddy hauled himself to his feet, and extended a gloved hand.

_Doctor Brigid Tenenbaum had been slinking around the docks for weeks now, and made it no secret that she was seeking out Frank Fontaine. One day, she sought him out. Cigarette in one hand and purse in the other, the doctor had confronted him._

_ "Herr Carnegie," she had started, accent thick. "I understand you have experienced somewhat of a miracle, nein? Might I inquire as to the cause?"_

_ He had tried to deflect her, feed her the white lies that had sated everyone else, but to no avail. She was persistent, stubborn. Finally, with a flick of her wrist, Tenenbaum sent her cigarette flying through the air and into the dank water that sat on the floorboards near the sorting tables where it sputtered out, focusing both hand on her purse. There came a click of a pen, he could only watch as the doctor leafed through her checkbook. _

_ "How much is the answer worth to you, my friend?" she asked, casually. _

_ His throat had gone dry as bone, mind racing. This could give he and Nina some breathing room, keep the bill collectors off their backs, at least for a while, and keep the heat and electricity on while he looked for a better job. This could be his break. As much as he loathed it, he had given in._

Stumbling slightly, only to be caught by a metal clad arm, Carnegie arose to shaky feet, room spinning around him. Slowly, painfully slowly, Delta led him across to a bathroom where at least some of the mirrors and sinks were still whole and functioning. The Big Daddy pointed, first at the man before him, and then at the bathroom. His message was clear. Clean yourself up, his blank and silent countenance said. No one wants to see you like this. Mumbling curses, the man made his way inside and gazed into the dirty and cracked mirror, arms on the sink as he leaned forward. What he saw in the reflection was a bitter old drunk.

_He'd warned her. Told her his tale of agony, of the cravings. Told her that, whatever it was, it was dangerous. That it shouldn't be played with. Her reassurances had come quickly and heavily. _

_ "Have no fears, Herr Carnegie," she had started. "Your concerns are noted and will be taken into account."_

_ She soothed him with science and technicalities that made his head spin, terms and concepts far beyond his knowledge rolling off her tongue. At last, he took the check, and with a creeping agony, he handed her the jar, its occupant still squirming in its ill sized prison. _

_ The doctor had smiled then. "My thanks, Herr Carnegie. You have done a great service to the scientific community with this. All will work out for the best in the end, you shall see. Have faith, my friend._

_ Have faith. Those words had echoed in his head for years. When a newly legitimized Fontaine had released the first Plasmids and Tonics, he had held out hope that Tenenbaum had indeed kept her word. He hoped that the terrible, agonizing side effects he had experienced from the slug's bite, from the raw form of this ADAM as they now called it, had been eliminated, and for a time, it seemed his faith had been well placed. Then the rumors had started, the tales of ADAM addicts, mutilated by their usage, marred by tumors. The stories of Splicers. The effects of the ADAM hadn't been eliminated; just changed._

_ Frantically, he'd warned his friends, his family, to stay away from the stuff, that ADAM was dangerous, deadly, but to no avail. When the Civil War came, when Nina and Donny had died, he knew what was to blame. ADAM was the root of all evil in Rapture, the poison that had killed it, and the fault could only lay with those who had unleashed it. He'd sealed his wife and child's fate with a mason jar, he and Tenenbaum. He'd given her Pandora's Box, and she'd thrown it open with wild abandon. _

Standing there hunched in a decrepit train station bathroom, the haze in his mind at last began to clear, and regret and shame began to fester. Regret, shame, and anger. The seed had been planted when he had heard her voice over the radio in Delta's suit a few days ago, for the first time in over a decade. He'd buried it, ignored it, did his utmost to focus on everything, anything but _her_, to put all his energies into work on their escape, into keeping his people alive. It had been working, too. Until they had tested the sub. Until she had said those very same words, the very same way once more, and that was insufferable. Her lies would not hurt anyone else, would not poison the lives of the ragtag family he had fought so hard to protect and provide for. She was a changed woman that much was true. Gone were the confident swagger and inflated ego and self-importance, but the lies remained. Breathing deeply, Carnegie tried to calm himself.

He would work with her until they were safe, cooperate, and play nice. But once danger passed, and they were truly free of Andrew Ryan's hell, all bets were off.

**End Chapter. Thank you to everyone for your patience. I've been unable to update all my fics here for some time now, but it looks like things will be returning to (relative) normalcy now. Thank you to all for your support and reviews, and please keep up the feedback. Happy Holidays to all.**

**P.S. I know Carnegie's story doesn't exactly fit the one laid out by Tenenbaum's audio diary in the first game, but I'm taking some artistic license here. It is fanfiction after all.**


	38. Tea Time

**Disclaimer: Blah blah blah don't own blah blah please don't sue me. Hey there folks, been a long time. Truth be told, I had semi-retired from fanficition writing, in an attempt to focus on more legitimate (and profitable) writing projects, but recent events have brought me back to the old stomping grounds. My thanks for putting up with the absence, though. Things are reaching a head in our little tale here. Hold onto your hats, kiddies, because you're in for a bumpy ride.**

With a hiss, the airlock creaked open and the dripping form of Subject Delta stepped out into the steamy halls of Hephaestus. With a buzz and a crackle, Amir's voice came to life over his radio.

"Alright, try to find Ryan's office down. Should be big and flashy. The bastard was nothing if not an egoist." The young man coughed before resuming. "I'll keep tinkering with that gadget Sigma brought back, but I'm not hopeful. It took a lot of damage during your, uh, misunderstanding. Our best bet for disabling the security should be Ryan's console. We'll get to work when you find it." With that, the line abruptly went dead, Amir's voice vanishing; the boy was as brusque as they came, endlessly impatient with anything that took him away from his work.

With a grumble that echoed through the twisting halls of the city's molten heart, Subject Delta set forth, spear gun in one hand hellfire in the other. Alice and Sigma had remained back at the train station, helping to pack to the bathysphere and protect the soon to be abandoned camp. The Big Daddy lumbered on, alone with his thoughts as the creaks and groans of decrepit machinery and hissing of escaping steam filled the air. Sighing, Johnny Topside walked on, alone with his thoughts, and finally at peace, if only for a moment.

ooooooooooo ooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo oooooooooooo

"What exactly are we looking at, Doc," the captain of the Cain asked, the faintest hint of a quaver in his voice despite the man's best effort.

Bullets of sweat dripping down his balding head, the middle aged scientist fought not to stammer. "I-I don't know sir. Whatever it is though, its massive. I don't know how sonar didn't pick it up sooner. These readings are like nothing I've ever seen." Hastily dabbing his brow with a handkerchief, the pallid man of science turned to the captain, a gleam in his eyes. "This is unprecedented. Is there anyway we might be able to get a visual of the disturbance?" The passion in his voice was new to the sailors; seemingly from nowhere, this meek man had found a fire in his soul.

"At this depth the periscope will be useless. No visibility from the dark…." Stroking his chin, the captain shook his head.

"Surely we can at least try it?"

"Fine," the veteran sailor snapped. "Be quick with it though. Run your fool's errand then get back here to figure out what the hell it is we're facing."

With a babbled thanks, the scientist was hurried over to the periscope, which he eagerly stooped over. He took hold of the handles and turned it back and forth, scanning the seas around them, only to step back suddenly with a sharp breathe.

"What is it?" the captain snapped, beads of his own sweat starting to form. "What did you see?"

The scientist was silent, his face a sheet, until finally, though quivering lips, he whispered, "Atlantis."

ooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooo

The rickety shelves stacked high with moldering crates reached ever upwards into the gloom as Jack Ryan carefully crept through the labyrinthine warehouse. Dim and distant lights cast their wan glow onto the grungy floor as motes of dust danced in the air. Wild shadows crept along the ground and distant walls as the man picked his way through the maze, knowing that somewhere within its mess, a madman held captive what he held most precious in life. Somewhere in the maze waited Lutwidge, and this night would be his last.

The air was dead silent, until from the distant darkness a quivering echo sounded.

"Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun."

The madman's voice was unmistakable; gleeful and shrill. Jack's heart stopped in his chest as the verse reached his ears, and he whirled towards the direction from which it had come. Slipping his pistol from his waistband, the man picked his way through the dense forest of rusting metal and cracked wood, as Lutwidge's gleefully tittering voice kept up his prose.

"Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven! "

The voice was closer now, and through the mess of angle iron he could see a spot ahead bathed in fresh light, a far cry from the aged glow of the distant bulbs above him.

"Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen: Each young man that calls, I say 'Now tell me which you MEAN!' "

Ever closer he crept, silent as the shadows to which he clung, a skill well learned in his father's hell beneath the sea. The monster that'd stolen his daughters was screaming now, with wild abandon.

"Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done? "

From wrath to ecstasy to agony, Lutwidge's ranting swung from one extreme to another, his voice quavering with every word. He howled his verse with wild abandon, a proclamation to the world. A challenge.

"Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE."

The man bellowed his words with the conviction of a lunatic, each turn of a phrase punctuated by heavy breaths. Pressing himself to the last wall of shelves between him and his goal, Jack peered around the corner, and his breath caught in his throat.

Diesel generators grumbled as the floodlights they fed bathed the floor in fresh light, dispelling the shadows to a dark halo around them. In the center of the ring of rumbling motors sat a round picnic table with a checkered tablecloth, and arrayed around it sat his daughters. Only they weren't so peacefully seated. The man's blood boiled as he took a second glance, as saw his girls tied to the rusting iron wrought chairs. Creeping tendrils of green cord, fuse line, snaked their way through the floral patterning of the chairs and up to bizarre collars affixed around the necks of his daughters. With mounting horror, he recognized their jury rigged make and craftsmanship from his time beneath the waves; bombs. Tattered rags gagged their mouths, and tears stained their faces. Three more chairs sat around the table, clustered around the one side. Two remained empty, but the third played host to an enormous musty stuffed rabbit, like a cast off from some long since past and forgotten carnival.

"Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more: So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!"

And there to complete the picture, gleefully skipping around the whole affair, a chipped teapot in one hand and a pistol in the other was Lutwidge. His mained face writhed in agony and ecstasy, the tatters of his long jacket whirling as he danced around his captives. Heart racing, Jack took a single step forward, and the lunatic whirled around in an instant to face him, wearing a grin that left every last one of his yellow teeth revealed.

"Well, well, well," he pronounced, with a predatory pleasure. "Look at who's come to tea. Though you're late. So very late, for so important a date." The old man's smile vanished in the blink of an eye. "No funny business now," he growled through cracked lips. "I'm sure by now you've recognized your little darlings' newest jewelry pieces. You move one toe out of line and, well," a manic giggle escaped as Lutwidge's grin returned once more before he continued, "off with their heads."

His handgun leveled at Jack's chest, the old man almost looked hurt when he saw his newest audience member's weapon.

"Now really, Mr. Ryan?" he lamented at the sight of the pistol. "Even after my cordial invitation _explicitly_ asked you to come unarmed, you insisted on toting along that vile little bit of weaponry." He made disapproving tut-tut, before his face darkened once again. "Put it on the ground. Now," he spat. "Nice and slow now." Never letting his eyes, or gun, stray from their target, the madman ambled over to the table, placing the teapot down with reverence and tousling the hair of Jack's nearest daughter with an almost paternal smile before stepping away. Hellfire bloomed in his open hand. "I'm sure you already know what happens if you don't comply."

For what felt an eternity, Jack could only stare at the monster in rags before him, before he peeled his eyes from the lunatic and beheld his daughters, his family, his anchor, and the choice became clear. Slowly, painfully slowly, he bent over and gently placed the pistol on the dust-covered floor before rising back up to his full height and meeting the eyes of the devil.

With a grin like the Cheshire cat, the maniac tittered in glee.

"See? Now that wasn't so hard. Now come, come, come my dear boy. We've so much to do, and so little time. And on top of it all, the tea's going cold."

And so it was that Jack Ryan went to tea with a man as mad as a hatter.

**End Chapter. Short, I know, but I'm still getting back in the groove here folks. Wanted to at least get something up here for you guys. For those who didn't know (or lack basic observational skills), Lutwidge has a major ****Alice in Wonderland****/ Lewis Carroll obsession. Hence the Wonderland references. A good many of his more lyrical lines were pulled from Wonderland quotes, and the poem he was rattling off was Lewis Carroll's **_**A Game of Fives**_**, which out of pure luck dealt with five young women, and fit with the story perfectly. Anyways, let me know what you think in the reviews. Until next time folks.**


	39. Batten Down the Hatches

**Disclaimer: Blabbity blabbity don't own Bioshock blabbity blah. **

**Additional Disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about submarine warfare besides the fact that it's underwater. So feel free to correct me in the reviews.**

**We're back, folks, with the next exciting update of the sitcom **_**Two and a Half Splicers**_**, and let me tell you its – oh what's that? This ISN'T a comedy? Then what the hell am I supposed to do with all these Ayn Rand jokes! Ugh. While I get some new material, you guys can go ahead and read…whatever this is. I have no clue. This is first time I'm seeing it. Looks weird….**

The halls of Hephaestus were silent, steamy tombs. The original Big Daddy pondered them as he trudged towards Ryan's office. He had yet to encounter even a single Splicer, but the sweat that beaded upon his helmeted brow and fogged his porthole seemed to give him his answer why. Hephaestus was an oven, a manmade scab upon the molten lifeblood of the earth that seethed beneath the seafloor, and not even the icy waters of the Atlantic could tame the fire below. The machinations of man still toiled on in their disrepair to give Ryan's nightmare a trickle of power, but where once there thrummed the roars of a finely tuned engineering marvel, now only the gurgles and gasps of decay remained. Steam sprayed out in clouds from cracked and burst pipes, obscuring nearly everything a few yards in every direction. Split and dangling wires crackled and sparked as miniature lightning bolts played across their tips each time the swung into contact with a bit of metal of water. Subject Delta gave them a wide berth, and marched onwards. If even he was sweating inside his suit, he could only imagine what it must've been like for the Splicers. No wonder they had abandoned this place.

Slowly but surely, the steam began to dissipate as the Big Daddy left the cramped hallways behind him, emerging into a long chamber lined with pillars, an elaborate, wide open door at its end; Ryan's office, it had to be. It was then he noticed the bodies. The heat and time had left them as desiccated cadavers, but the moisture in the air left them glimmering and dripping, and their clothes wasted away to sopping rags.

Death had never phased him, and he wasn't about to start now; Subject Delta plodded onwards to the door with nary a second look. Rapture Central Control loomed dark and silent as a cathedral, towering electrical pylons reaching up towards the high vaulted ceiling and sparking off in the distance. Red emergency lighting flashed gently through the haze that permeated the space even here, and with no other options, the Big Daddy began to search for a way forward. After mounting one of the stark metal staircases that clung rusting to the chamber's walls, the man within the machine dropped through a hole in the wall below him, and landed with a thud in a rotting wooden room, floorboards crunching wetly beneath his boots. A wide bulletin board dominated the far wall, but its contents had long since rotted to nothingness. Idly, he wondered what could have been of such importance to display so prominently.

A few more turns through the dark halls brought him at last to his destination; Ryan's office. Few lights remained functioning in the place, but one that did served to highlight the space's other occupant; Ryan himself.

The body laid sprawled across the floor in the rotten remains of a fine suit, his skin stretched tight across the outline of his skull, just as dried and brittle as the rest. There was on distinguishing feature, however, that the Big Daddy couldn't help but take pause at. A mangled golf club grew out from a cracked and caved in piece of skull, sticking out a wild angle like some television set's antenna. It was almost comical. It was then that Delta remembered what he owed this man.

Andrew Ryan, the architect of his hell. The man who's sheer ambition, hubris, and paranoia had stripped him of his humanity and left him this hollow husk. Fontaine and his workshop of horrors were to be blamed as well, of course. Even his wayward ally Augustus Sinclair was culpable to an extent. But Ryan, Ryan was who had started it all. Ryan had built this nightmare beneath the sea. Ryan had kept him here, a prisoner. Ryan had thrown him to his dogs, and the puppets had had their way with him. With a roar, Johnny Topside brought his booted foot down upon the moldering head of Andrew Ryan and smashed it like a rotten pumpkin. He had no lost love for Rapture's former master.

Leaving the corpse behind him, the man rounded the corner until at last his goal became revealed. Sparking and glowing in all its glory, the massive console sat resplendent, a towering construct of gleaming switchboards each crafted in the shape of a skyscraper. It had a beauty to it, he could not deny that.

"Delta, I'm reading that you arrived in central control," the radio crackled, as Amir's voice bloomed into life on the other end. "Plug that signal booster I gave you in, and I should be able to hack it remotely from here. Then we can all get the hell out of here."

With a grunt, Delta complied. Like all of Amir's products, it was as ramshackle as they came, housed in an old tin can and featuring antennae made from a coat hangar. Despite all appearances though, the Big Daddy had absolute faith that it would work. Amir's work was quality, and he'd had no cause to doubt the young man yet. The radio spoke once more.

"Damn. Just caught something on the schematics here. If Ryan's remains are around there somewhere, a sample of his DNA, even a partial one, will greatly speed things up. If not, I can still hack it, but I'll need some more time. Do you see him around there anywhere?"

With an affirmative grunt, the Big Daddy took the signal booster and wiped the genetic key card that projected from its bottom onto the underside of his boot, and then plugged it in.

"Alright, initializing connection…. excellent. I'm reading a partial genetic match. Alright, this won't be but a moment. I just need to disable the torpedo defenses and-"

The young man was cut short by the sudden blaring of an alarm as the command center roared to life. Other voices crowded in over the radio.

"What did you do, kid?" Carnegie roared as static crackled all the way. "I, I didn't do anything!" Amir answered him, panic-stricken. "I wasn't in the system yet. Someone's vessel must have got close enough to trigger the automated response!"

The floor beneath him rumbled as Subject Delta watched the command console flicker to life, sparks flying across its connections, its lights vibrant once more.

"I can't stop the ones that have been launched already, but I can lock down all the torpedoes left. It's the best we I can do now. It won't last forever though, so we have to go now!"

There at last was something he understood. Turning heel on the console, the Big Daddy began to charge towards to door exiting from Ryan's office. The steel blast door was sealed shut, but with the way he entered no longer an option for exiting, he had no other choice. Carnegie assumed control of the radio on the other end as his voice now ruled the air.

"Delta, we're making final preparations for launch now. Haul ass on back here, but if you don't make it in time, we'll swing past with the sub and you can grab on. Either way, start moving that brass covered ass of yours!"

With a roar, the Big Daddy let loose a stream of hellfire upon the door, holding his outstretched palm until the steel was cherry red. Then he set to work. Grumbling to life, his drill cast forth a cascade of sparks as it screamed against the red hot metal of the doorway, the metal yielding to it, if only barely. Casting aside the drill, the Big Daddy savaged it with his hands, beating his fists against the steel portal until it began to dent. Still, the door stood defiantly, and howling in rage Subject Delta pulled out his launcher and loaded in a rocket.

He would see the sun again, and feel its warmth. He would find his daughter, his baby, his Eleanor. And he would be damned before a simple door stopped him.

oooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo

Sirens blared throughout the chambers of the USS Cain as her crew scrambled to their battle stations.

"Captain!", a crewmember called as he rushed to his superior's side. "We have multiple torpedoes showing up on sonar!"

"Have those damn Russians lost their minds?" the captain cried out, sweat beading his brow and voice livid. "Take immediate evasive action! We are not starting World War 3!"

Even in the flashing red lights of the sirens, the crewman's face stood out like a snow-white sheet. "Sir," he started, voice quavering, "it's not the Russians. The launch was from….whatever that is below us. Sonar shows they're locked on and gaining on us, and some have targeted the Russians too."

For a moment hat stretched on like eternity, the captain had no words, his mouth bone dry, until finally with a stuttering start he found his tongue. "D-double time on that order then, sailor! We need to get this tub moving! And someone get me a radio line with command!"

As his crewmembers scrambled about through the cramped quarters of the submarine, their captain could only stand and stare, his world a space of calm in the storm as he stood at the bridge of his vessel of ten years and feared for her end. In a heartbeat, it all came crashing back into clarity; the heat and stink of so many men cramped so tightly, the flashing red and blaring sound of the alarms. The race of his own heartbeat. Storming over to the radio, he brushed the sailor stationed there aside and seized the set, dialing in the frequency he sought, and receiving only silence. With a burst of static though, the radio at last burst to life.

"Hello. My name is Andrew Ryan, and my voice is the last you shall ever hear…"

Hands trembling, the headpiece fell from the man's grasp and clattered to the floor as the message rattled on.

"God help us all," the man whispered through dry lips, before losing himself in the chaos that ruled the bridge.

"God help us all."

ooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo

Shaking his head, Carnegie watched as Subject Sigma loaded the last of their equipment aboard the submersible.

"Alright," he called out, "that's the last of it, people. We need to move! Everybody aboard!"

Before he could turn away, a panic-stricken Alice appeared before him, her steps silent as a ghost and her face just as pale.

"What about Daddy? Where's Daddy!"

The girl was hysterical, her eyes wild. Carnegie took a deep breath and laid his hands on her shoulders. The Big Sister tensed, but allowed his touch.

"Alice," he began, "he's at Hephaestus. We're going there in the sub to get him before we leave. Now I need you to stay calm. Stay focused. Can you do that for," the man tripped over the word, "for your Daddy?"

Mouth drawn tight and lip quivering, the girl nodded her acquiescence, before darting off to help Tenenbaum, who was struggling to herd the rescued Little Sisters aboard. Sighing in in exhaustion, the man quickly looked about to see what else needed to be done. Amazingly, everything seemed to be going right.

As Billy Parson helped his mother through the open door and into the sub's now cramped quarters, it seemed to him that everything was in order. Michael Carnegie hesitated, if only for a moment, as he looked one last time at the place that had been his home, his prison, for over a decade. He took one last look at Rapture, drank in its sights, its sounds, its smells, and then hocked a gob of spit towards the floor in disgust.

"Good riddance," he muttered, before hurrying the submersible, cramming himself into the already hot and sweaty chamber, and slamming shut the door. Sealing the bulwark, he turned to Amir.

"Let's get this tin can rolling, kid. We've got a passenger to pick up."

**End Chapter. Please review and such. Also, I'd like to take this time to address the question of an anonymous reviewer, who asked about a scarred man coming back from the dead. This has me a bit confused. The only scarred man I can think of is the Spetsnaz captain who held Jack, the Pawn, and Lutwidge. In retrospect, as one reviewer so eloquently put it, making him the "bastard child of Andre the Giant and Two-Face," may have been a bit too stereotypically bad guy, but I digress. Anyways, he gets killed, Jack and Lutwidge escape, and the Pawn is captured by the CIA. When he comes to, the Pawn gets interrogated by a CIA handler. That clarify things? Just as a general statement, I really have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to the spy/military segments, hence the absurdity of some things. But hey, you can't blame a guy for trying. Anyways, enjoy, folks. **


	40. Sins of the Father

**Disclaimer: Standard blabbity blah, I don't own nothing. Anyways, back to the fun stuff. Free at last of the scourge of academia, I have the time to return to such time-wastery as writing. Hooray! Many thanks to my reviewers for your insight into submarine warfare. A military writer I am not, and as such I shall compensate for that in the style of Hollywood; excessive explosions. Anyways, enjoy**.

Jack Ryan sat at the round table in his rusting iron chair, his face a blank mask. Beyond his placid eyes his mind raced while the grinning face of Lutwidge stared back at him.

"Well, isn't this nice? All the little ducks in a nice neat row," the madman rattled, before frowning. "Or is it a circle? Oh, no matter. The important thing is that you're here. And now we can begin!"

"What's your game, Lutwidge," Ryan spat as he glared at the man, taking each moment that his captor twitched or giggled to can the room, desperately looking for any advantage. "What's the point of all this? What do you want? Who the hell even are you?"

The man drummed his knobby dirty fingers on the checkered tablecloth with gusto. "Who in the world am I?" he started, eyes twinkling. "Ah, now that's the great puzzle." The man bowed his head with flair. "I am Orrin Oscar Lutwidge! Your judge, jury, and executioner for this evening."

Jack Ryan stared back at him, shaking his head. "Why do this?" he demanded, rage creeping into his voice. "What have I ever done to you-"

"Silence!" Lutwidge roared, jumping to his feet gun in hand. Just as quickly as he rose though, the man whirled to the side; towards the enormous stuffed rabbit that occupied the seat next to him. "And that goes for you too," he growled at the toy before returning his gaze and aim to Jack, his face bearing a hint of embarrassment. "Honestly," the lunatic started. "It is so hard to find good help these days. My sincerest apologies. Now, where were we?"

Before his captive could so much as breathe the madman snapped his fingers and gave a wolfish grin that soon turned to a snarl. "Ah yes," he started, spittle flying from his mouth. "Your death!"

Keeping his eyes on that man for every second, Jack Ryan hoped and prayed that his skills hadn't dimmed with age, and that Lutwidge liked the sound of his own voice.

"You keep saying that," Ryan spat back at him as his mind quested outwards. "How about having the decency to tell me what I've done before you kill me."

Lutwidge could only shake his head, his eyes wide and mouth drawn in a tight smile. "Now, there's no need to be rude, my boy. Keep calm," he said, voice dripping with venom as the flames in his palm leapt higher, "don't lose your head. Or make them lose theirs." He finished his ultimatum with a cackle, and Jack couldn't help but look at the bomb collars Lutwidge had fixed about his daughters' necks. The man would die for that, he swore it.

Cold beads of sweat were forming on Jack's brow as he practiced the trick that had taken him years to master. The surface world was too dangerous a place to openly use his plasmids. No, life here required a more subtle application of force, more finesse. With the picture of his knife in his mind's eye, the man extended his thoughts and pulled. Silently, the blade slid along his skin from where he'd stowed it in his sock and up into the open air, hidden beneath the tablecloth. Lutwidge's stare sharpened at the strain on his prisoner's face; that was unacceptable.

"Well," Jack spat. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

The man's stare lessened, but remained. "I suppose it's only fair," the kidnapper drawled. He chuckled and gave a toothy grin. "Sins of the father, and what not." Laying his gun on the table and leaning back in his chair, the man spread his hands wide and shrugged, as sparks and flames roiled in his palms. "We might as well start at the beginning, so get comfortable."

ooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo

With a howl of triumph, Subject Delta burst through the remains of the blast door awash in flecks of molten steel, his armor steaming from the heat. Exhausted, he stopped only for a moment before barreling down the hallways towards the bathysphere docks he had entered from. There was no delicate traversal of the steamy depths of Hephaestus on his return trip. Drill upraised and heavy booted feet pounding on the metal floors, Delta charged towards the exit, smashing through anything and everything in his path. Desiccated corpses were crushed to a pulp beneath his feet, and loose pipes were brushed aside like matchsticks. All the while, the radio crackled as hissed in his ear.

"Hurry," Amir's frantic voice came between the static. "There isn't much time!"

oooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooo

"There isn't much time!" the young man yelled into the radio transmitter as his hands flew across the bathysphere's control panel. "When those torpedoes hit their targets, there's going to be debris, and we need to be as far clear of it as we possibly can!"

Carnegie came up and tapped him on the shoulder, wiping the sweat from his brow with his other hand. The cramped bathysphere was already starting to get hot.

"That's it, kid," he called out, struggling to be heard over the roar of the engine coming to life. "We're all clear!"

With shaking hands, Amir took hold of one final lever and threw it forward, gears grinding and clanking beneath. The whole sub shuddered, and then dropped. The little girls screamed as the metal tub dropped in free fall for a split second before splashing down into the water and sinking down into the launch chamber.

Amir's fingers danced over buttons and dials as the bathysphere descended beneath the waters, clouds of bubbles swirling madly just beyond the portholes. With the twist of a dial and a kick of the engine, the submersible lurched forward and surged down the metal chute before rocketing out into the cold waters of the Atlantic. The bathysphere's lights bathed the seafloor in their dim glow and cut a burning swath through the dark waters before them. Locking in on Delta's radio signal, the young man turned the sub away from the Atlantic Express terminal and with a plume of sand and bubbles sent them off towards Hephaestus.

"Han on you big metal bastard," he muttered under his breath. "I'm coming to get you."

oooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooo

Jack poured every ounce of concentration he had into slowly maneuvering his blade, and he prayed that any twitch or tick in his face that might betray his true purpose went unnoticed by his captor. The man seemed far too engrossed in his own words to notice anything else to begin with.

"You know, it was your father who first came to me, all those years ago." Lutwidge relished each word, as if savoring the memory. "You see he had a dream, my boy, a marvelous dream. But that was it. Andrew Ryan was a dreamer, but he needed doers to build his Atlantis. Men of action made Rapture happen. Men like me."

All of the sick mirth that had colored the madman's voice drained away in the blink of an eye. "For damn near a decade, I played cat and mouse with the CIA, KGB, MI6, and every other government dog who tried to put the pieces together, keeping Ryan's operation running right under their noses. And you know what? I won!" He gave a hollow laugh, eyes wide. "I fucking won! I beat the best minds that the world could pit against me, every last crook, spy, and spook." Lutwidge seemed to shudder then for a moment, twitching with rage. He leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on the table and hands together, his fingers splayed. Jack felt a cold bead of sweat trickle down his forehead as the knife floated out from beneath the table, low to the floor.

"Do you know what your father did after that?" Lutwidge's face was the picture of calm, an eerie mottled mask of pockmarked flesh.

"No, no I don't," Jack answered him, through clenched teeth, struggling to keep his face clear of any sign of his efforts. "But I suppose you're going to tell me anyways, aren't you?"

"We have a winner!" Lutwidge cackled for a moment, each laugh coming more slowly than the last until they died in his throat. Then the warped and mottled flesh of his face began to contort, his eyes darkening. "The man I had slaved for, whose dream had become my own, betrayed me." His voice was rising now, steadily, and angrily. "Andrew Ryan went to his Rapture, his paradise, his Wonderland, and took with him the world's best and brightest. Then he locked the doors behind him, and threw away the key. But you know what?" Lutwidge screamed, his voice echoing through the warehouse, ragged and barbaric. "When the last boat left, and I finished scrubbing every last trace of Ryan's trail, I was still here!"

The man was hysterical, his eyes wide and wild, fires burning in their depths. "Me, the man who'd single-handedly beat every last bloodhound set on his trail! I was left behind. Me!" Snarling in rage, he slammed is fists down upon the table, rattling the old ironwork and sending out a puff of smoke as the fires died in his clenched hand. "Your father," he spat, "gathered to himself the world's best and brightest in his utopia beyond the reach of the parasites, and then left me, the brightest of them all, the one who'd been his most ardent supporter, behind here on the surface. Where is the justice in that?"

Lutwidge was snarling as he raged, spittle flying from his lips with every word, ragged and heavy breaths laboring between them. "I swore I'd have my revenge on Andrew Ryan that day, no matter what. No matter how long it took, no matter how far he ran, I'd have the bastard's head." The raving lunatic's face contorted into a twisted and bitter smile. "And you know what, Jack my boy? I was so damn close! Tracking down Ryan's little Wonderland took a bit more doing than I expected, I'll grant you that, but with enough manpower, well," the man paused to chuckle, "_anything_ is possible. "I gathered together my little band of Pawns, strung them along with just enough tantalizing clues, half-truths, and lies, and then set them loose on the world like bloodhounds." His face fell for a moment, eyes drooping and smile going limp. "Of course every now and then, one of them would get a little too smart for their own good, and need to be…removed. Perils of the job, I suppose."

Jack stared at him with incredulity. "You killed your own people, just like that?" the last son of Rapture asked, playing into his captor's grandstanding, all the while maneuvering his mental grip upon the blade to bring the knife behind Lutwidge. At last free of the table and chairs, he focused on slowly raising the weapon to the level of the man's neck.

Lutwidge merely shrugged. "What can I say," he answered, grin returning. "I'm a hard man to work for. Regardless of the few regrettable losses along the way, my little birds proved wonderfully adept at peeling back the layers of your dearly departed father's subterfuge, and before long I had the proper coordinates." The mandman's eyes gleamed as he reminisced, his voice softened and gentled. "Oh what a marvelous night that was," he murmured with a smile. "The moon was full and bright, the sweet salty spray of the sea upon my face, the blood of that poor stupid fisherman still fresh on my hands…the lighthouse seemed so beautiful against the starlight, so…perfect."

Jack could feel sweat beading against his brow as he urged the knife along those last few inches. _Just a little further_, he told himself. _Almost there._

"You can imagine my surprise when I entered the city, only to find a full blown civil war!" Lutwidge laughed now, full and throaty, tears forming in his eyes. "Your father," he managed in between cackles, "your father had become one of the very tyrants he despised. A parasite. And he didn't even fucking realize it! Oh, the irony of it all was delicious!" Lutiwdge's laughter dimmed to a chuckle, and then at last to a smile. "I had hoped to get my revenge on Andrew while there, but the cards weren't in my favor I fear. His boys began winning, and I figured a strategic withdrawal was in order. Live to fight another day, and whatnot. But I learned so much down there…"

The man's voice trailed off, before in an instant his eyes hardened and his snarl returned. "Like how to spot a man using a telekinesis plasmid!" With the flick of his wrist, the madman launched a crackling bolt of electricity from his fingertips, jumping to his feet. His concentration shattered, the blade toppled to the ground as Jack dove from his chair, barely dodging the manmade lightning. Jumping to his feet, Jack thrust his open palm forward and a blizzard howled forth across the table, the flesh of his hand cracking with frost. With a grace that defied his age, Lutwidge danced back away from the freezing mists, his gun abandoned on the tabletop.

A manic grin grew across the lunatic's face as Jack watched an eerily familiar mist coalesce around his frame. "Finally," Lutwidge shouted to him, "something fun! Just remember who has more to lose, here!" Too late, Jack recognized what was happening, and the bolt of lightning he loosed towards his captor met only empty space as Lutwidged dissolved into thin air, like the Houdini Splicer's that had haunted him beneath the waves.

He didn't have much time. In fluid motion, Jack yanked the abandoned gun into his hand with a telekinetic pull, and turned to face the bonds of his nearest daughter; Masha. Her hands had been tied behind her back with thick rope, and with a grimace, Jack saw no other options.

"I'm so sorry, baby, but there's no other way," he said to her in the softest tone he could manage, voice quivering. "Stay strong. "

With flames engulfing his hand, the man took hold of the ropes that bound his child, trying, and failing, to keep the fires away from her exposed flesh. Masha could only give a choked whimper, her gag drowning out all sound. A moment later, her hands were free, and marked with angry burns.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, tears gently rolling down his cheeks. "You have to get yourself and your sisters out of here. Now! We're out of time!"

The unnatural hiss and hum that marked the reentry of a teleporter rent the air, and Jack whirled in time to see Lutwidge's body rematerialize.

"Tsk tsk," the madman admonished as twin fireballs roared to life in his hands. "No father of the year award for you!"

Jack's bullets met empty air as his foe disappeared once again, the roaring flames his parting gift. With a thought, he swatted the first one away and it exploded against cobwebbed shelves in the shadows. The second he caught in a telekinetic grip; a first salvo against Lutwidge's next appearance. He spared a glance for his daughters, his reasons for living. With shaking hands, Masha was extricating herself from the crude gag and collar, almost free. The air hissed and rippled once more.

Lutwidge solidified midstride, diving behind a stack of crates as Jack loosed the fireball at him. The missile exploded against the dried wood, catching the rotting shipment like paper. He spared a glance back towards the corner the first fireball had impacted, and confirmed his fears; the trash there had ignited as well. He turned back just in time to swat aside a new one Lutwidge had launched.

"A fine tactic," the madman mocked him from the shadows. "Keep that up and it'll get nice and toasty in here in now time!" Jack spared a glance for his daughters; Masha was free, and working to release her sisters, her fingers' burnt, bleeding, and shaking. An ominous buzzing filled the air, a prelude to Lutwidge's voice. "I've decided to bring back an old favorite," he cackled. "It did wonders during the civil war. Hope you're not allergic. "

In a heartbeat, Jack realized what was coming. His mind raced, before lighting upon a single, desperate idea. Jumping atop the table, he stowed his gun and held forth both his hands, their flesh frosting over and draining of all color. Then came the swarm. He could barely see them, the horde of chattering, hungry insects, but he could hear them, and that was enough. Roaring, Jack Ryan faced down swarm with all the power and fury of winter, freezing blasts of howling air and ice thundering from his palms and breaking the bugs' charge on the spot. In a hail of tiny corpses, the stinging little monsters fell to the ground, encased in frost in deprived of life.

"Well, " Lutwidge mused from his hideaway. "That was interesting. But I wonder, how many tricks do you have left?"

Jack looked back down at his daughters. Two were free, and working on their sisters' bonds. He only needed to remain on the defensive for a little longer.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," Jack roared back at him, eyes burning in hate. "Get ready to die motherfucker!"

**End chapter. A bit heavy on the language, I know, but I think the action warranted it. Anyways, its good to be back. Please keep up the reviews, and as always thanks for the feedback.**


	41. Emergence

**Disclaimer: Miracles do happen! Ken Levine has turned over control of the Bioshock franchise to me and – oops never mind. Still own nothing. Also, further disclaimer, I know nothing about submarine warfare, or underwater physics. I'm just making this up as I go. So please, don't sue or gripe about the lack of realism. This a fancition of a game about an underwater city where people shoot lightning out of their hands. . Anyways, now back to the good stuff!**

Amir's hands flew across the sub's control panel as he artfully guided the craft through the waters, his eyes flicking from one dial and meter to the next, all the while keeping watch on the waters before them.

"Can't this tub go any faster," Carnegie grunted over the hiss and hum of the engine. The young man ignored him, ignored all of them. Stanley's nervous laughter, the pained whimpers of the little girls, Alice's muted cries of "Daddy"; all fell on deaf ears. There was only him and the machine. Anything less than absolute concentration from him, and the rusty bathysphere would be their tomb. What Carnegie said next though managed to get his attention.

"Mother of God," the man half whispered as he peered up and out through the glass. Amir followed his gaze, and his breath caught in his chest.

Above them, circling Rapture like cold steel sharks were the two submarines. And streaking towards them with deadly intent was what seemed to be every last torpedo the city had.

"Aw fuck."

The words had barely slipped past his lips when the torpedoes struck.

The shockwave rattled the bathysphere as one after the other, the submarines were eclipsed in cascades of bubbles, rippling clouds that consumed all trace of them. And then the debris began to fall. Like a black hail, massive shards of the sleek metal ships began to plummet down through the waters, the twisted remains of more ghosts gone to join the graveyard at Rapture's feet. Sweat beaded along Amir's brow in the hot and sweaty air of their bathysphere as he gripped the controls; it was time to get moving.

oooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo

Subject Delta charged through the halls of Hephaestus, drill in one hand and hellfire in the other, daring the world to throw any challenge in his way. He retraced his steps through the labyrinth of pipes and machinery, smashing through anything that held him for more than a second. He was nearly there now. He could radio Amir, ride the bathysphere to the surface, and escape this hell once and-

His thoughts were interrupted as the whole hallway shook and a massive crash thundered from above. Metal groaned and rivets snapped, and on instinct, the metal man dove back into a corner. A heartbeat later, the ceiling gave way, and the sea poured in.

The waters crashed against him with a vengeance, slamming him against the wall with enough fury to set his ears ringing inside his helmet. Icy saltwater met magma heated pipes and birthed seething plumes of steam. With a pained grunt, the Big Daddy rose to his feet and peered through the haze. The way forward was blocked, an immovable wall of twisted steel and concrete baring his passage forward. On uncertain footing, he advanced and peered upwards at the torrent that poured down from the newly made hole. He knew that the walls of these halls were thin, and plenty of loose pipes and rebar stuck out from the construction. With a sigh, he resigned himself to the only option left. A second step brought him beneath the waters, the weight and fury of the ocean bearing down on him To simply stand up straight was a feat in and of itself, but to climb was another thing entirely.

_Eleanor_. Her image was seared into his mind, alone, lost. With a groan, he took another step, and reached out his hand for purchase along the wall. She stood before him in his mind's eye, hair loose and dressed a simple night-gown of the whitest cotton. A booted foot found hold in the loose concrete. He pictured her as she had been when he first knew her; tiny, frail, and delicate, riding along like a bird on his shoulder, his reason, his purpose in life. He grabbed another hunk of rebar and hauled himself off the ground.

Inch by inch, the hollow man climbed up and out though the hole, the ocean's fury pressing down against him every step of the way. The pain, the strain and fatigue on his muscles, was inconsequential, though. He could take. He knew he could take it, and for their sake, he would. He would see them safely to the surface; Tenenbaum and her Little Sisters, the innocents dragged into this hell and doctor running from her past to save them. Amir and Billy, whose childhoods had been stolen from them, their lives twisted. Carnegie, Gloria, even Stanley and Grace; shattered men and women who deserved to see the sun once more, to hope once more. For their sakes, he would press on, bear the burden that they could not. For Alice…

With a roar that echoed out into the waters like the cry of some agonized whale, Subject Delta pulled himself outside the hole and away from the pull of the torrent the flooded the corridors below. His breath echoed in his helmet as he beheld the source of the collapse. Sleek steel had sunken into the rusted exterior of the hallway like a fresh knife through rotting flesh, rending open the dark and steamy halls of Hephaestus for the sea to reclaim. A fresh corpse drifted out from the hunk of the wreck, uniform billowing in the currents before the pull of the flow dragged it down into decrepit chambers of Rapture's dying heart.

Delta turned away; there was nothing he could do for them now. Turning his gaze skyward, he grimaced at what he saw. More pieces of the submarines were drifting down towards him, the water slowing their descent, but not by enough. He had to get clear of the debris, and find somewhere to radio Amir. With as much speed as he could manage, the Big Daddy trudged along the top of the hallway, looking for the tallest structure he could find. His salvation came in the form of a great looping coil of cooling pipes. Faces still flickering before his mind, Delta grit his teeth and charged onwards.

oooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo

"There he is!"

"I see him," Amir shouted, answering Billy's call. Alice leapt to the window in a flash, brushing past Grace and Stanley as if the weighed nothing at all.

"Daddy!" she screeched, tears of joy rolling down her face as her whole body quaked. Billy laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, whispering words urging calm, but Amir heard none of them. There was only him and the sub, the controls an extension of his own body. Carnegie stood behind him, on the look out for any chunk of debris heading their way. Sweat poured down his brow as the young man urged the bathysphere closer to the cooling tower, Delta's lone figure standing forlornly atop it.

"Listen up big guy," he shouted into his radio with a burst of static. "We don't have time to stop and prep the airlock. You're going to have to jump onto the outside and hold onto something, because as soon as you're on, we're getting the hell out of here!"

The Big Daddy gave an affirmative grunt on the other end, and that was all the answer he needed. With painstaking care, he inched the sub closer to the pipes; too far, and Delta wouldn't make it. Too close, and he ran the risk of a crash. At last, he could go no further.

"You've got to jump!" he called over the radio, his eyes straying to the ground beneath the piping. They sat on the edge of a trench, its darkness reaching down into infinity. Amir felt his throat tighten and heart race. Doubt clawed at his heart. What if he didn't make it? What if he hadn't gotten close enough? What if-

"Heads up! We got incoming!"

Carnegie's voice ripped him back into reality, and Amir shot his eyes skywards only to find another twisted chunk of scrap metal hurtling towards them.

"Oh, well that's just fucking perfect!" the young man hissed as he wrenched the bathysphere forward, sending its passengers sprawling and crying, their bags scattered across the floor. The bathysphere lurched away from the incoming debris as its engines roared back to full throttle. With a muted crash that sent shockwaves rocking though the water, the hunk of submarine crashed into the side of the cooling tower, shaking the whole structure to its foundation. Amir could only watch in horror as pipe cracked and metal bent, the whole complex tilting towards the lip of the trench like some tree toppling in slow motion. Delta scrambled for purchase atop the pipes but found none, his massive hands desperately clawing against he sides of the metal as he slowly began to sink with his perch.

Time seemed to crawl as the whole horror played out. He had failed, the young man realized with a wave of fresh terror. He hadn't been fast enough, hadn't gotten close enough. Delta would die because of his mistakes. His incompetence.

"No!"

The single word ripped through the sub with a decade's worth of agony and rage. "No, no, no! Not again!"

Alice shrieked as she stood on unsteady feet before the window, her claw-like hands tearing through her own hair. The Little Sisters cowered behind Tenenbaum's skirts, and even the adults were cowed by her fury.

"Alice," Billy said softly, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder, "you're scaring everyone. You need to-"

In the blink of an eye, the Big Sister delivered a backhand that sent the young man spinning and crashing to the floor.

"Not again," she hissed as she widened her stance, arms akimbo and hands spread wide.. "Never again."

A single tear trickled from the corner of her eye as her arms began to shake, her face a mask of pure concentration. The cooling pipes continued to fall, their base cracking from the pressure as the whole cliff began to crumble. Dust and bubbles clouded the waters as rock and metal tumbled into the black reaches of the trench, rumbling like some distant avalanche. Still Alice stood, her whole body trembling, her skin paler than moonlight. The dust drifted out and away as the thousand bubbles greedily swam to the surface, and at last her gambit revealed itself.

Hovering in the water was Delta's flailing form, slowly inching forward as he sat in the girl's telekinetic grip. She trembled, tears rolling down her cheeks as she fought the rush of water from the collapse that threatened to pull Delta down. To steal her Daddy, her rock, from her. She faltered, thin lines of blood trickling out from her nose as she fell to one knee. A strong metal hand picked her back up.

Subject Sigma stood next to her, a solid and immovable crutch, his free hand extended with splayed fingers, his own plasmids at work. She felt the burden ease, and Delta's speed redoubled. At last he landed on the balcony of the sub with a crash, arms flashing out and taking hold of any loose handle or rail he could find. A gloved fist rapped against the window, and the passengers got the message.

"All aboard, Captain," Stanley shouted. "Give this tub some gas!"

Amir didn't need to be told twice. Finger's flying over the dashboard, he breathed life into the engines and adjusted the ballast. Like a balloon cut from its string, the bathysphere began its ascent, its course tweaked and prodded along by its pilot as Carnegie called out obstacles. Faster and faster they rose, the light above them a distant and fleeting promise that grew stronger by the second. Rapture shrank beneath them, a distant nightmare and twisted hell. As the shattered remains of the submarines rained down upon Hephaestus, the aged machines could take no more. Bits and pieces of the complex collapsed into the trench, their lights flickering once, twice, and then dying. All across Rapture, the lights began to die, its districts going dark one by one. The great floodlights that illuminated her skyscrapers faded to nothingness, the gentle glow of countless neon signs snuffed out. Rapture fell dark as the city's black heart shuddered and died, and in the heart of each man and woman aboard the sub, they knew that the city had breathed its last. Andrew Ryan's dream faded away into the darkness as the bathysphere rushed ever upwards.

With a spray of seawater that sparkled like a thousand jewels, the bathysphere bobbed to the surface and rocked against the surf.

With a groan, Subject Delta cracked open his eyes, and found himself facing a sight he thought he'd never see again; blue open skies, peppered with clouds, the sun shining brightly just out of sight. Then he saw the warships.

**End Chapter. Please review and such. Hope you all enjoyed it. We'll be back to Jack and Lutwidge next chapter. Sorry to disappoint.**


	42. Ashes to Ashes

**Disclaimer: These are just getting redundant. I am not the game company, for any of your poor sops that thought I was. Tragic, I know. Anyways, onwards to violence!**

With a howl of rage, Lutwidge abandoned his latest fiery assault and vanished into the hot smoke choked air. Eyes wide and stinging from the smoke, Jack Ryan whirled about the burning warehouse, desperately seeking out any trace of the madman. He spared a glance to the remains of the man's deranged tea party; free at last, his daughters looked at him imploringly.

"Go!" he screamed over the crackle of the fires that had begun to consume the building. He couldn't have them here, caught in the crossfire. He couldn't have them see what came next.

Tears staining her face, Masha nodded solemnly before leading her sisters back towards the door, into the maze of shelves and racks that had yet to catch fire.

"Not so fast my pretties! You wouldn't want to miss the show, would you?"

Lutwidge cackled gleefully as he popped back into existence immediately behind the group of girls, barring their way forward.

Jack's hammering heart seemed to freeze in his chest as absolute horror seized him. He was too far away. He wouldn't make it. Masha whirled and faced the grinning lunatic mere inches away from her. His pock-marked face hung in a slack-jawed grin as grubby fingers seized her by the arm.

"Oh, you and I are going to have so much fun my – ugh!"

The madman dropped like a stone as Masha's knee rocketed up and connected with a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy. The girl disentangled herself from him as he fell, and delivered another swift kick to his stomach.

"Don't fucking touch me, creep!" she screamed as she launched yet another blow. Lutwidge was ready this time, though. Struggling to emerge from ball he'd curled himself into, their former captor held forth a single outstretched palm, sparks playing across his fingertips.

Jack was running towards them before he even realized it. _No, _he thought. _No, no, no, no, _"No!"

Time moved at a crawl as lightning shot forth form Lutwidge's hand, through the open air, and connected with his daughter's chest. Masha flailed, her arms pin wheeling and clothes smoking, before collapsing into the waiting arms of her sisters. Lutwidge struggled to rise, his face an agonized grimace. And then Jack was upon him.

With every ounce of strength within him, Jack sent his fist flying towards the monster who had dared to harm his family. Lutwidge's nose crumpled beneath the blow with a sickening crunch and he toppled back to floor.

"Run," Jack breathed, turning to face his children, his reason for living. "Take her, and run." When the sounds of desperate footsteps met his ears, the man turned back to his victim, rage consuming his mind. The older man struggled to rise, blood streaming from his face, as Jack launched a savage kick towards his prone form. He felt something give way before his foot with sick satisfaction.

"You like that?" he howled at the downed man before him, writhing in agony. "You like hurting innocent children?"

Through bleeding gums and cracked teeth, the old man gave a gurgling chuckle, lust in his eyes. "Oh, innocent is the last word I'd use to describe those shapely creatures, wouldn't you agree?" Jack seethed in rage and launched a kick to shatter the monster's wolfish grin. Just as Lutwidge had suspected he would.

Two gnarled hands shot out like vipers and caught Jack's booted foot mid-swing. With a twist and a push, the old man sent his foe toppling to the floor, and then struggled to rise himself.

"Well," he wheezed, pausing to spit out a bloody tooth, "this has been lovely, but I'm afraid I've got to go. Places to see, people to kill. Ta-ta!"

The haze of teleportation began to surround the man as mad cackles emanated out from the growing cloud, nearly drowned out by the roar of the fire. The world began to blur around him, and Lutwidge gave a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment. Jack Ryan's reckoning would come soon, he assured himself, once he had time to heal and plan.

Hi thoughts were cut short by the impact of the solid wall of muscle and fury that was Jack Ryan. Launching himself at his enemy, Rapture's last son wrapped his arms around the fading man in a mighty bear hug, the world around him a warped haze, and hung on for dear life.

"Not this time, you monster," he spat, before the air was forced from his chest. Colors blurred and shapes lost their form until the world around him was nothing more than streaks of light and shadow, peppered with flecks of color and snippets of sound. Heat seared Jack's skin as they passed swirls of orange and black, a tangled mess of limbs hurtling through space. Up was down and gravity a distant memory as the two men rocketed across the warehouse, all control and direction lost, any sense of time long since shattered. Passenger and pilot alike clawed and kicked at each other, flailing madly until at last their flight came to a close.

With a mighty crack and a pained scream, Jack Ryan popped back into existence and skidded across the floor in a tumbling bleeding mess. The world spun around him, and with a mighty heave the man emptied the contents of his stomach, spewing it across the ground. And then he realized with a start that it was not solid ground. His vomit drained down through the holes of the metal grid they stood upon, and disappeared into the smoke below. On trembling legs, Jack rose to his feet and clutched the guardrail he found to his side. Then he looked down. Far below, the warehouse burned, a smoke veiled hellscape of red and orange that writhed and roiled with a life of its own. He stood upon a catwalk that ringed the entire interior of the building, just before where the wall met the roof, a bird's eye view of the destruction. Eyes watering from the smoke, Jack turned away and looked for Lutwidge. He found him a few yards further down the walkway, struggling to rise just as he was.

Lutwidge glared at him, face haggard and bleeding. "Well now look what you've done," he spat, bowed over and clinging to the railing for support. "Now where am I supposed to throw my tea parties?" His face curled into a snarl, and Jack met it with one of his own.

With his hand full of hellfire, Jack held out one palm and threw every drop of hatred he had for the man into a roaring column that shot forth from his body. Lutwidge answered it in kind with a howling spray of ice and freezing mist. The two elements met midway between the men who commanded them, clashing in a twisting cloud of orange and white that devolved into steam with a hiss like a thousand serpents. Seconds stretched on into eternity as the two men stood there, locked in combat, fire and ice. Steam burnt their skin as smoke stung at their eye as the world burnt below them, before finally with heaving chests the two men relented their attacks.

Lutwidge hunched over, one hand clutching to the guardrail for support. "You know," he called out over the roar of the flames and between labored breaths, "its amazing what your body can do with 10 years when it knows how to produce EVE." His shattered face spread in a wolfish grin, blood-stained teeth glinting in the firelight. "We could be here all night. Ready for round two?"

"Not exactly, " Jack growled as his clamped his hand down upon the guardrail, sparks crackling across his palm. Lightning raced down the metal rod and into the hobbled form of his foe, and with a scream of twisted agony, Lutwidge collapsed, convulsing.

Jack wasted no time. Before the man had managed to rise again, the last son of Rapture was upon him, his fists a blur. Bone cracked and cartilage gave way beneath his blows, and the pain he felt in his own battered hands and knuckles was drowned beneath the torrent of his rage, his primal fury. With every strike, memories flew before his mind's eye. His daughters, captive and terrified, bombs fixed around their necks. Eleanor, lying in a pool of her own blood, this monster's ultimatum tied to a knife plunged into her chest. Masha in agony as lightning coursed through her body. Jack Ryan remembered it all. He hated this man, hated all that he had done and all that he was with every fiber of his being. Above it all, Jack hated what this man had made him become.

For ten long years, Jack Ryan had buried the man that had terrorized Rapture's depths, kept the cold and merciless killer that had haunted the ocean floor locked away deep inside of himself. Lutwidge had changed that, taken his daughters, his children, and in doing so swung wide open the door of the beast's cage. As his stood over his foe, blood upon his hands and fire in his eyes, Jack Ryan came to a sickening, terrifying realization; he _liked_ it. The madness, blood, gore, and violence, these hallmarks of Rapture that he had for so long denied, they brought to him a twisted joy. Gleefully, he felt the old familiar weight of his trusted wrench still tucked within his waistband, and in a flash it was in his hand, blood on its metal hardly a second later. With a grimace that nearly stretched into a smile, Jack swung once more.

He did not know at point Lutwidge had stopped moving. He did not care. The wrench felt like the weight of the world, his arm made of lead. _Too much smoke_, some distant part of his brain thought as the wrench fell from his grasp, his body wracked by fits of coughs. Another bout sent him sprawling onto his back, falling away from Lutwidge's blood-soaked form, the man's skull a shattered gory mess. He didn't think about Lutwidge; he could not muster the will. The world around him was a tangled mess of heat and smoke. Slowly, a figure entered his vision; a bulky creature, a strange mask on its face and heavy tank on its back. A fire ax rested in its hands. _Odd_, Jack thought as the world faded around him. _I don't remember that type of Big Daddy…_

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With a groan, Jack returned to consciousness, the single sensation of the world around him that pierced his still groggy mind the heady scent of cigar smoke. Blinking to clear to cobwebs from his eyes, he struggled to sit up, only to find himself chained to his bed. His hands too had been bound, pressed together, palms facing inwards like some penitent monk.

"Ah, you're awake," came a voice from the corner of the room, a slow drawl marked by the distinct rasp of a habitual smoker. "About time, son."

Craning his neck with near herculean effort, Jack turned to find the voice's owner was the same as the cigar's. A salt-and-pepper beard hung to his chin as one eye stared out blindly form its scarred socket, the skin around it white as snow. His suit hung perfectly around his frame as she rose to his feet, slowly savoring another drag from his cigar.

"Dear old Uncle Sam wants to have a chat with you, Mr. Ryan."

**End chapter. Hope you guys liked the end of Mr. Lutwidge. It was a cool fight to write. Things are definitely wrapping up around here: I aim to have this little tale finished by the end of August, so it might get a bit rapid fire with the updates here soon. Please keep up the reviews and feedback though, as I'm leaving a certain amount of this fic's finale's details up to my dear readers, aka you. So keep tuned in for questions at the end of future updates. Until next time folks.**


	43. A Deal with the Devil

**Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Sigh**

The bathysphere bobbed languidly in the morning sun as pandemonium took hold within it.

"What the hell are those?"

Becky Langford's question hung in the air like a lead weight upon their souls, and Carnegie could only scowl.

"Bad news," came his reply, soft and bitter. "Alright, people," he bellowed, launching into action. "On your feet! Becky, Billy, gear up. Same for you, Sigma. If they decide to play tough, at least we can go down kicking! On the deck in two minutes, let's move!"

"I'm coming with you," Alice said, her voice steel. Carnegie met her gaze with a glare of his own before softening his eyes.

"We'll take care of him," he said solemnly, "I promise. But right now, I need you in here. You're our ace in the hole. Delta and Sigma are going to be targeted as threats right from the get go, but you? Get into regular clothes and they'll think you're just another girl."

Alice was silent, her eyes cold. "Fine," she spat at long last, her mouth barely moving, jaws clenched tight. "But if they so much as touch him-"

"Death and blood and psychotic rage, yes we get the picture," Amir snapped as he busied himself with the control panel, hardly sparing a backwards glance for them.

Carnegie shook his head and grumbled as he strapped into his homemade armored vest. "You two play nice," he commanded. " Get this thing ready to drop back down underwater at a moment's notice in case things go south, you hear?"

He could see a snide comment formulating in the depths of Amir's mind, but the young man held his tongue, and gave a curt nod. Carnegie gave a terse sigh before his face reverted to its usual stony mask.

"Alright then. Let's go meet the welcoming committee."

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The sunlight trickled through the thick glass of Subject Delta's helmet as he lay prostrate on the deck of the bathysphere, struggling to rise. The water had pinned him to the ground during their ascent with all the crushing fury of the ocean behind it, and his sudden freedom from it was exhilarating. He could see the warships in the periphery of his vision, looming like great steel cliffs, but he paid them no heed. They were a footnote, mere scenery as his mind still reeled from the dizziness of his trip and struggled to pull itself back together.

The sudden emergence of a large gauntleted hand into his field of vision broke him from his reverie.

"Up and at 'em, big boy," Carnegie hollered at him as he took up positions along the bathysphere with Billy and Becky. Still reeling, Delta took Sigma' offered hand and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. With the world back in its proper frame of view, the gears of his mind began to realign and the depth of their situation dawned on him. He responded to it by pulling out his launcher and loading in several large grenades. Sigma seemed to be of a similar mindset as he readied his laser.

With a roar, the twin titans of Rapture hefted their weapons and picked their targets, ready to fight to their dying breaths. And then nothing happened.

"Well," Becky quipped drily. "That was a bit anticlimactic."

"Cut them some slack," Billy added, deadpan. "I doubt there's anything in naval protocol about dealing with seven foot tall monsters from the bottom of the ocean. " He shrugged. "As soon as they figure out what to do, those guns will start booming, have no fear."

"Can it you two," Carnegie snapped. "Sooner or later, they're going to try and hail us on the radio, or failing that, send over a patrol boat to negotiate." His mouth flicked into a small and bitter smirk. "And if those don't work, _then_ they'll blow us up."

Almost as an afterthought, the man stroked the grey stubble upon his chin and turned to the door into the bathysphere. "Amir," he hollered, fingers drumming across his customized Tommy gun, "anything on the radio?"

"Nothing but static," came the youth's answer a moment later. "I think Delta landed on something important," he added, with a small dose of venom.

The Big Daddy grumbled in indignation, but a sharp glance from Carnegie silenced them. "Well then," Becky added with a sigh. "It seems we're down to them sending out a boat, or blowing us up. What could possibly go wrong?"

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The patrol boat moved slowly towards the bathysphere bobbing idly on the water's surface, the sun to its back. Carnegie squinted as the craft approached, trying to make out the figures aboard it.

"Alright boys and girls," he announced as the roar of the boat's motor became audible. "Everybody keep your cool, and let me do the talking." He paused for a moment, his eyes pensive. "And if things go down hill, blow these fuckers away."

"Amir," he hollered, never taking his eyes off the boat, "we ready to go?"

"At the drop of a hat, boss."

Carnegie only grunted in response, and tightened his grip on his submachine gun. The boat closed the distance between the craft at a breakneck pace, before cutting its engine as it drew near. As the craft drew to a stop, its occupants became clear; the pilot of the craft, four armed guards, and a bald, clean shaven man in a suit. The sixth man stood as the boat began to rock with the gentle waves, dark sunglasses obscuring his eyes. His face was impassive, a small frown adorning his lips. The others were visibly shaken, their rifles gripped in shaking hands, their eyes wide as they beheld the sight of the two metal behemoths before them. Carnegie gave a slight smirk at that before returning his face to a stony mask.

Silence hung in the air as he glared at the man in the suit. Finally, he spoke.

"Gentlemen," Carnegie called out, his voice level as his eyes flicked between the guards and their seeming superior, the man in the suit. "Can I help you? Last I checked this was international waters."

The man in the suit cocked a brow at this. "English?" he said, his voice low, smooth. "That will certainly make things easier." His tone was one of quiet annoyance, the voice of man who held his current duty in boundless loathing, barely kept in check.

"Let's drop the bravado," he continued, his voice icy. "And keep in mind that presently, I'm the only thing standing between you and a watery grave? Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Carnegie spat.

The suited man took a moment to fix his tie and readjust his glasses. "Good," he said at last. "Now, this is the part where you start giving me a reason to keep that tub you're on floating."

Understanding bloomed in Carnegie's mind as he scrutinized his next words. For all the vitriol and bluster behind the man's words, he was just as afraid as the soldiers next to him. The destruction of the submarines probably hadn't helped his mood either. The older man cracked his neck idly, his mind racing until it lighted upon a single idea. A single, terrible idea. He grimaced inside, even as he kept his face an expressionless mask. It was the only way.

"My associates and I don't particularly enjoy threats," Carnegie said coolly, at last, gesturing casually towards the two Big Daddies. "And I think you boys can clearly see they're more than equipped for dealing with threats. They're the reason that you gentlemen are going to cordially escort us back to the good old US of A."

The main in the dark sunglasses was not amused. "You think your two freaks there can take on the navy?"

Carnegie steeled himself, swallowing hard. "No," he answered, his voice a rasp, "but imagine what an army of them could do against the Russians."

The words hung in the air like a poison as the waves gently lapped against the two craft. Delta's mind raced, and Becky and Billy shared glances at each other, concern flickering across their countenances. At last, the man in the suit spoke.

"I think you, sir, may have just bought yourself the hospitality of the federal government." A frown flickered across his face. "God have mercy on us all."

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"You did what!?"

Tenenbaum struggled to contain herself as she gripped the railing with white knuckles, watching as the motorboat sped back to the warships. The warships that would be escorting them to the coast, with depth charges at the ready should their new charge decide to try and strike of on its own.

"Relax, Doc," Carnegie spat back, rubbing his temples. "You think I actually intend on handing them over all of Ryan's dirty little secrets and Fontaine's toys? After what they did to Rapture? After what they did to my family?"

His voice was a hiss, his eyes narrowed in fury. "No," he said at last, "all I did back there was buy us time, and a ticket back to the shore. We'll play along for a bit, throw them a few trinkets to keep them satisfied while they work on getting you two," he pointed at Sigma and Delta, "out of those suits."

Tenenbaum shook her head, her face furrowed and creased in worry. "What then, Michael," she demanded. "What comes after this gamble you have dragged us into?"

Carnegie was silent as he drank in the sun and surf, the cool sea breeze whistling through his thinning hair. For the first time in over a decade, he watched as the clouds above past him by. Finally, he spoke.

"We had no choice in this, Doc," he began. "Even if we'd slipped past the welcoming party here, I can guarantee they'd be scouring the coast for us as soon as we made landfall. No, this way we make them work for us. We have them cart us off to some hush-hush military base, play them for all they're worth."

The man paused, shaking his head with a bitter laugh.

"And then we run like hell."

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"Up and at em', boy. You've got a visitor."

Jack Ryan returned to the land of consciousness with a groan as the voice of his captor reached him. The Southerner, as Jack had dubbed him, casually strolled through the door to his room with a nod and a word to the two armed guards posted there.

"Fuck off," Jack growled, trying, and failing, for the umpteenth time to free his hands from their restraints.

"Now, now," the man chided. "Is that any way to talk in the presence of a lady?" The Southerner stepped aside and pulled a second figure into the room; Eleanor.

Jack's eyes went wide.

"Jack," the girl began, words tumbling from her mouth. "Oh thank goodness you're alright. They, they came to the door, said they had you and the others in custody, and, and-"

In a flash, she was at his bedside, taking him in a hug.

"I'm so happy you're alive!" she exclaimed aloud, before adding in a whisper, "They don't know what I can do."

"Keep it that way," the man breathed back, before she broke off the embrace.

The Southerner rolled his one remaining eye.

"Touching, truly. Ms. Lamb here was just one of the curiosities we found there, Mr. Ryan. The contents of your basement were particularly fascinating."

Jack Ryan felt all the color drain from his face as realization bloomed, and horror took hold. They had found the compartment in the basement filled with the relics of Rapture. In silent panic, the man tried to mentally inventory everything he had had stored there, and grimaced at the results.

"I thought as much," his captor answered smugly. "Now, you and I are going to have a fascinating little chat about what we found down there, understand? Soldier!" he snapped, pointing to one of the guards. "Escort Ms. Lamb here back to holding."

"That won't be necessary."

A new voice entered the fray, as footsteps echoed in from the hall. When the guards moved to block entry, there came a rustling of paper and a polite cough, and they parted before him. He was finely dressed, his uniform crisp and clean, with a smirk adorning the young man's face.

"Calhoun?" the Southerner growled. "What are you doing here? This isn't your jurisdiction.

The newcomer merely smiled.

"That's why I actually here; it is my jurisdiction." With a flourish, Calhoun presented the paper that had dispelled the guards to the Southerner, and the one-eyed man scowled. "That's right," Calhoun continued with a smirk. "As of today, this project has ceased to be a concern of the CIA. The Pentagon was so pleased with the reports of the potential of the….salvage….my task force in the North Atlantic recovered, that they have transferred supervision of this project to the ONI." He flashed a grin at the Southerner. "To me."

The Southerner seethed. "Why you little upstart piece of-"

"Now, now, agent," Calhoun chided, relishing each second of his victory. "We wouldn't want me to have to report that you were uncooperative, would we?"

The Southerner clenched his jaw and glared at the newcomer, then again at the form in front of him, and said nothing.

"Good," Calhoun continued, languidly. "Now I want everything related to the project ready for transport within the hour. Everything, and everyone."

The young man paused for a moment and directed his gaze to Jack and Eleanor, who had watched the entire exchange in silence.

"Mr. Ryan," he said at last, as if tasting the name upon his tongue. "At long last we meet." Jack met the man's gaze, and he saw the eyes of a man obsessed, a mad hunger twinkling behind them.

"We have much work to do together. So much work to do."

**End Chapter. Please Review. Pretty Please. Things are winding down now, and I'd love to get your input.**


	44. War Games

**Disclaimer: insert witty banter here I own nothing**

Jonathan Calhoun watched with a smile from the balcony above as the trucks were loaded with everything, and everyone, connected to Rapture. The sight was almost intoxicating; he was close now, so very close. His reverie was interrupted by footfalls from the stairs behind him.

"You're playing with fire here, kid," the Southerner drawled as he ascended the stairs to the balcony overlooking the garage. "You really think its wise to try and play politics with the CIA?"

With the slightest hint of a smirk, the director of the ONI turned to face him. "Do you really think its wise to threaten a man with the ear of the Secretary of Defense? One word from me, and I can have you stuck manning a listening post on a spit of rock off the coast of Alaska for the rest of your miserable career."

The Southerner merely shook his head, his mouth drawn tight in a scowl. "You think this is a game, Calhoun?" he demanded, fury burning in his one remaining eye. "Sure, you got yourself into the Pentagon's good graces, found some new toys for the eggheads to play with. But at what cost, hmm?" Snarling, the agent thrust out his finger in accusation. "You jumped the gun," he spat, "sent our troops rushing in blindly, and now good men are dead because of it!"

"I believe the term the Secretary of Defense used was 'acceptable losses'. And besides, if I hadn't ordered that team in, the damn Soviets would have-"

"The Soviets would have gotten themselves blown to all hell," the Southerner snapped, a vein bulging in his forehead. "They'd have been sitting at the bottom of the ocean, we'd be able to deny any involvement, and we'd have had a warning for when we sent our own team in!" The agent took a deep breath to compose himself. "As its stands now," he continued, voice calm yet acid, "the President has spent the last eight hours in negotiation with the Soviet premier to make sure that your fuck up doesn't turn into World War Three!"

"My 'fuck up', as you so eloquently put it, may have just given us the tools to win World War Three." Calhoun slid him a venomous smile. "This project, under my direction, has the potential to put our armed forced decades ahead of anything else on the planet, and we've only just scratched the surface of its potential." The man's eyes darkened, and his voice lowered. "So let me put this in terms you'll understand; stay the hell out of my way."

With that, Calhoun turned heel and headed for the stairs, leaving an embittered man to glare at him as he left.

"Poor choice, kid," the Southerner breathed before he too turned to leave. He had a phone call to make.

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"Are we there yet?" Amir quipped drily as the truck trundled down the road, every bump and divot reverberating up through the seats in which they found themselves.

Their naval escort had led them to across the open seas to the coast, and then to a secluded cove, two rows of docks with bobbing rows of bizarre craft filling it completely. It was here that they surfaced fully, and accepted the mooring lines thrown to them by the soldiers. And then they'd had their guns taken away, Becky kicking and screaming every step of the way about how they could "pry it from her cold dead hands" before a stern glance from Carnegie silenced her. With a sigh, the young woman had handed over her weapons. She would play along, for now. They all would.

They quickly found themselves "encouraged" at gunpoint to enter into the back of a tarp covered flatbed truck painted in the army's distinct shade of green. The vehicle had groaned in protest when Sigma entered, and sounded as if it were ready to give out when Delta loaded in after him, but it had held. And a second later, the door had slammed shut, leaving them in semi-darkness as the trundled up the hill on a switchback road to the distant sight of a concrete bunker, peeking out from amongst the pines.

"So where do you think we are?" Billy breathed, just loud enough to heard over the rumble of the truck. Carnegie stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Somewhere in New England," he said at last, his voice pensive. "Judging from the chill, and what I saw of the landscape, I'd say Maine. Makes sense; right on the coast, plenty of remote areas away from prying eyes."

"Remote doesn't help us," Billy grunted with disapproval. The older man merely shrugged.

"That remains to be seen, Billy-boy," he answered, before the truck rolled to an abrupt stop. The doors swung open, and after a temporary blindness, Carnegie led his ragged band back into the light. Delta and Sigma landed upon the concrete floor with a thump, and he could see with no small sense of satisfaction that their guards still visibly bristled around them. They stood in a wide vaulted chamber, concrete and steel at every turn, and with a great groan the man whirled to watch as the heavy blast doors to the outside world slowly shut behind them. Armed guards ringed them, weapons trained on them with sweating, twitching hands.

"That won't be necessary, men," a clear voice rang out as a new figure stepped onto the floor. Michael Carnegie quickly took stock of him, and scowled internally. He knew this man's type immediately; the military bureaucrat. The boy who played at soldier to grasp for power, but never bothered to sully his own hands. A pretender to the uniform that he had devoted so many of his years to. The sight made his blood boil.

"And just who might you be?" Carnegie demanded, crossing his arms across his chest and resisting the urge to club this man with the nearest heavy object he could find.

"Ah, I could be asking you the same thing, " the pretender answered with a coy smile. "By all accounts, you are the leader of this merry little band of misfits, and a name would be helpful." He stepped forward, past the ring of guards around them. "Jonathan Calhoun," he pronounced with an extended hand and a smirk. "I am the man directly responsible for the living conditions you will be provided with. A little civility wouldn't go amiss."

Carnegie glared at the man's hand, then back at his face, and Calhoun's smirk slowly transformed into a scowl when he saw that no hand, or name, would be forthcoming.

"Let me make something abundantly clear," Calhoun hissed as he stepped in close to the older man, practically whispering and desperately fighting a flush of embarrassment as he retracted his hand. "You live and die by my mood, understand? Be good little prisoners, give me what I want, and we all walk away from this happy. But put one foot out of line and, well, I think you can guess what will happen." He ended his speech with a malicious grin. Carnegie yawned.

"That it, kid?"

Calhoun looked flustered at this, and Carnegie let a rare smile break through his stony visage, a dose of venom shining out from it.

"I'm no ones prisoner, boy. You ain't gonna lay a finger on any of us, and you know why? Because you need us. You need what we know, what we can give you. And I can guarantee that there's no other way you're getting that than by our cooperation." He laughed. "We just spent a decade in a living hell that makes the worst prison you could toss us in look like a goddamn walk in the park." The older man turned his voice low, a dangerous whisper. "Besides," he spat, "I know your type; I can smell a coward a mile away. That old lady over there has more balls than you ever will. "

With a smile, Carnegie stepped back from the red-faced officer, the young man's face twitching. "Well," he concluded, if that's settled, then how about you fine gentlemen show us to our quarters, and we can start discussing terms."

"Kombes!" Calhoun shouted, his voice quavering. "Escort our _guests_," he spat, with particular distaste, "to their accommodations. Put them with the others."

Years of practice helped Michael Carnegie keep his face an impassive mask with the help of years of practice as an older soldier stepped forward to lead them further into the bowels of the bunker.

Others?

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Eleanor Lamb sat silent and sullen in her spartanly furnished room. Prison cell would be a more accurate term. Their quarters had been linked, and that in itself was a small blessing, though the Ryan's had been just as subdued as she; Jack was still bedridden, and guarded at all times, and the girls had been shaken by their experience with Lutwidge, Masha especially. Eleanor couldn't blame them; nightmares of the madman standing over her with that knife still had haunted her dreams the entire trip north.

At least, she thought they were north. The sea was still nearby, the faintest hints of salt in the air tickling her nose before they had entered the bunker, and the chill cutting through her clothes and straight to her bones. She hadn't had much time to ponder that, however. The needs of the liberated Little Sisters occupied the majority of her time, and with Jack still out of fighting shape, she'd be alone in any kind of escape attempt. Not that the thought hadn't crossed her mind.

With a forlorn longing, she gazed at the heavy steel bar door that held her in this accursed room. It would be almost comically simple to bypass it for her. Teleporting beyond it, fireballs to the hinges, a strong kick; the possibilities were endless. But then a cry of pain or sorrow form one of the girls, one of her girls, would rouse her from her reverie, and thoughts of escape would fade to the back of her mind. She was needed here. She would have to wait to see the sun again.

With a sigh, Eleanor curled up atop her cot, her knees tucked into her chest as the little girls wandered back off to their own devices under the supervision of one or more of Jack's daughters, another minor crisis averted. The young woman struggled to find a few minutes of restless sleep, but to no avail; a ceaseless, nagging feeling tingled at the back of her head, familiar like a distant memory long ago forgotten. It's name danced upon her lips, but for all her efforts she could not identify it. A few seconds later, she didn't need to.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her heart froze in her chest as the echoes carried down the hallways reached her ears. This was a sound she had not forgotten, could never forget. A sound seared into her memory, burned into the fabric of her being by ignorant, blissful joy and soul-crushing grief.

"No," she whispered in a voice barely more than a breath. "It can't be…"

As if in answer, a low, pained moan reverberated through the halls, like the mournful song of some great whale.

The girl felt tears form in the corners of her eyes.

"Farther…"

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He could feel her. Deep in the pit of his gut, beneath layers of metal and muscle and all the unspeakable mechanical monstrosities Fontaine had grafted into him, Subject Delta could feel the presences of his Little Sister. His daughter. His Eleanor. His legs gave way beneath him as a shudder wracked his body, armored knees thundering against cold floor as Sigma struggled and failed to catch him. An agonized groan echoed out from the depths of the metal man, a primal howl that sent their armed guard scattering in panic, their weapons instantly trained on the metal man.

Longing, base animal need, tore through his battered body, sending shudders through his form as Carnegie and Sigma struggled to pull him to his feet. The head of their escort, Kombes as Calhoun had called him, glared suspiciously at the Big Daddy. Tenenbaum quickly stepped forward, her hands raised in supplication.

"Please," she begged, "there is no need for rash action. He means you no harm. Herr Delta is…unwell. It is a side effect of the process that rendered him as you see today." She swallowed hard in fear. "Once we get him to our chambers, I can attend to him."

With a drunken stagger, Delta lurched to his feet. Kombes kept his rifle trained on the metal man's glass face.

"Please," came Alice's voice, soft and meek, tears sluicing down her face as she watched her hero, her savior, slowly falter.

Silence hung in the air before a sharp sigh left Kombes's lips. "Stand down, men."

"Thank you," Tenenbaum breathed, and the party continued down the hall, Delta shuffling forward as if every step were some fresh torture, his breathing ragged. Turning away from the prisoners, Kombes's mind turned to his superior, the grand designs that Calhoun held. He shook his head. "Don't thank me yet," he breathed in an inaudible whisper.

At last, they reached the cell door, and Kombes unlocked it without fanfare, barely getting out of the way in time for Delta to barrel through it. A young woman stood in its center, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Father…"

**End Chapter. I know, I know; I'm a particular brand of evil for letting it off at this point. But the big reunion felt deserving of its own chapter, so we'll save that tidbit for next. Please review, and hope you all enjoyed it.**


	45. Reunion

**Disclaimer: I won nada. If you don't know this by now, then would you kindly get this fact drilled into your head? Splendid. Now, onto the chapter that everyone has been waiting for; the big reunion!**

"Father…"

Eleanor's words hung in the air the split second before the girl rushed him. Hot tears of joy streaming own the sides of her face, she launched herself towards her father, arms slamming against his metal back. She buried her face into his shoulder, shuddering, shivering, quaking. With gentleness and grace that defied his size, the metal man slowly lowered himself to one knee, bringing them face-to-face. Or as near face-to-face as he could ever be. Eyes glistening with tears, she stared through the murky glass that formed the only window into her father's walking prison, her eyes twin pools of sorrow and joy, ringed by the clearest and brightest blue.

"I am never," she started, breaking through her sobs with a whisper, "ever, losing you again." There was an edge to her voice, a threat to the world that she hissed with hatred and pain only for the torrent of her joy to wash it back into nothingness, drowned by sobs. She placed her forehead against his helmet, a forlorn smile forcing its way through the tears.

"I missed you," she said meekly, tears trickling down across the helm of her hero. "I need you."

At that moment, there was no act too depraved, no task too monumental that Delta would not have undertaken in a heartbeat if it would have granted him speech, no matter how fleeting. Words swirled through his mind as every emotion he had known for the too brief sum total of his true consciousness weighed down upon him, begging for release. The things he longed to say, the tender words he longed to give all died in the pit of his throat, burnt to ashes by his scarred and mauled vocal cords, ash he choked on until nothing was left but bestial grunts and groans. He held her, comforted her, as was his duty; his design. He was a mute pillar of strength, a silent guardian to shield her from the horrors of the world, her golem, her thrall. And as he knelt there, bathed in her tears, the man within the shell could not help but ponder his existence, his world. Here she was, his daughter, his Eleanor, safe and happy. Why then did her joy elude him?

Impassive and unreadable, the Big Daddy heaved a mighty sigh as he held his 'child' tight. What was real, and what was fabricated? Did he truly care for this girl, and she for him, or was it nothing but chemicals, a love born of needles, a yearning bred in a test tube? Who stood before him; his darling daughter, aching for a father of any kind? Or a cold and calculating spider upon a web of lies, tugging and twisting him to her needs, like a puppet on a string? What was real? What was true?

As he knelt there caught between misery and joy, cursed with silence, Subject Delta wept, silent tears trickling down his face and pooling behind the glass, invisible to the world. He was a shield. A wall. A beast born of metal and glass and pain, a monster built for one purpose. And no one cared about a monster.

"Come on," Carnegie offered softly to his compatriots. "Let's give those two a moment. God knows they've earned it."

As the rest of the survivors filtered out to explore there new home, their prison, they offered Sister and Daddy a parting glance. The pair saw none, adrift in their own sea of sorrows and joy. Alice glared at the pair as she parted, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

No one was taking her Daddy away. No one.

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The office was dark, its blinds drawn and door locked as its lone occupant sat huddled over the telephone.

"Then we are in agreement?"

The Southerner's voice crackled on the other end of the phone, his words slow and precise. The man holding the receiver scowled.

"I never said that," he snapped back, rubbing his temples. "What I said is that Calhoun needs to be stopped."

"Then stop him," the Southerner growled over the line. "Take care of the problem, or my associates and I will. "

"Just like you 'took care' of that prisoner you recovered from the Russians after you were done with him? I won't put innocent blood on my hands."

The only answer he received was a chuckle. "The Central Intelligence Agency resents those accusation," the agent answered with laughter dripping from his tone. "The individual in question suffered an…unfortunate allergic reaction to a medication used during his treatment. I assure you, no foul play was involved."

The man holding the telephone seethed at the blatant lies, but held his silence. The Southerner continued.

"I assume I have your attention now that the slander is finished. Now what I was trying to tell you, before you lost your head, was that we're giving you a chance."

"Who is _we_?"

Another chuckle. "Don't play coy, my friend. You know who. The old guard. The ones who young Mr. Calhoun managed to unilaterally piss off with his recklessness. They're giving you the seal of approval to take action. A blank check, so to speak."

The man felt the telephone begin to slip in his sweating palm. "I can't touch Calhoun," he answered quickly, panic creeping into his voice. "He's got the Secretary of Defense wrapped around his finger."

"The Secretary of Defense," the Southerner snapped in a voice wreathed by static, "is a blathering idiot who will soon be finding himself replaced. Besides," the voice from the telephone continued, its smirk practically leaping down the wires, "we both know there are far higher authorities when it comes to this country's protection."

Silence hung in the air and across the wire. "What would you have me do?" the man said at last, softly.

"Glad you saw reason," the Southerner answered with a chuckle. "You'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar. At least that seems to be the prevailing philosophy for this situation. Not my place to question it." He paused for a moment, sighing heavily. "You will be the carrot to Calhoun's stick. You give the prisoners what they want, make them comfortable. Gain their trust. And when we give the order, and that presumptuous little shit Calhoun is dealt with, you'll be there to lead them into our care. Understand?"

It was all he could do to speak, the Southerner's words ringing in his head. "Yes," he said hollowly, dread growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Good!" came the Southerner's chortling answer. "Glad you saw reason. From this point forward, you answer to me. This service won't go unrewarded. The CIA remembers her friends."

"That's what I'm afraid of," the man with the telephone said morosely before ending the call.

"What am I getting myself into," Captain Andrew Kombes muttered to himself with a shudder before stepping away from the phone, palms still sweating. He needed a drink.

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The words of the doctors had buzzed like distant flies in his ears over the course of the days, and Jack Ryan was tired. Severe bruising, they chattered, mild head trauma. Lung damage from smoke inhalation, heavy burns. Then there would come the morphine and their treatments, white-coated blurs that passed before his lazy eyes, all the while under armed guard, his hands bound for their protection. Remarkable healing rate, they buzzed. Lucky to be alive. Then needles, needles, needles.

He was quickly beginning to hate doctors. Then they would come with more morphine. He liked morphine. Liked it a lot. A distant and fuzzy corner of his mind told him they were keeping him drugged, sedate. Mindless. That part of him recognized his daughters when they came to visit him, tears staining their faces. That made him sad. Then the doctors would come back, with fresh needles full of oblivion and everything would be happy again. Sometimes he would sleep. Sometimes not. Day and night were meaningless here, distant figments of his imagination in this world without windows, the humming fluorescent lights above a poor man's sun. He did not know how long he had been here. He tried to care, truly tried. But time was a distant and foggy thing, and sleep was so much more appealing.

Then, the doctors stopped coming, the slow steady drip of oblivion that fed into his arm dried up, and reality gently drifted back into focus. That was when he saw her, a grey-haired ghost from his past, a familiar stranger. He barely recognized her, no cigarette in hand, the fire that had burned behind her eyes a distant smolder now, subdued by time and tragedy.

She sat demurely in a chair by his bedside, his faceless guards flanking her, guns in hand.

"Doctor Tenenbaum?" he croaked in disbelief, throat dry and rasping as parchment. "Is that you?"

With a sad muted smile on her lips, the aged scientist nodded, her thin and bony hands folded on her lap.

"How? Why? And where, for that matter?"

The doctor gave a sigh as she rose, training an expert eye to his various IV's and bandages. The soldiers never blinked. They merely adjusted their gaze.

"It is good to see you alive, Jack," she said at last, retaking her seat, seemingly satisfied with his current medical state. "Thankfully, the Captain in charge of our _care_," she said the word with no small measure of bitterness, "is a good deal more level headed than the man running our prison, and agreed to stop having the doctors dope you."

"Military base," Jack said idly aloud, "right I remember that, but why are you here? And where have you been?"

With a sigh that bore the weight of decades of pain, the doctor told her story. She told of how she had returned to Rapture, that nightmare beneath the waves, to save another generation of Little Sisters, another generation of girls tainted by her sin. She told of new friends and old foes, of their escape, and capture. And all the while, her eyes spoke of things untold, details withheld from their military audience. He nodded in understanding to both.

"So here we are," she concluded, voice resigned. "We barter Rapture's technology for our freedom."

"All of it?" Jack questioned, his tone tense as his mind raced, the horrors of ADAM seared into his memory. He met the doctor's eyes.

Never, the pale orbs said with finality and fury. It will never see the light of day.

"Whatever it takes," her mouth answered, with her back to the guards.

Jack nodded feebly, the last of the drugs yet to leave his body. "The girls will be happy to see you," he offered pathetically, with a forced smile. Memory returned unbidden, nightmare scenes of burning flesh and a grinning madman. He barely suppressed the urge to vomit.

Tenenbaum frowned at this, her brow creased with concern. "You do not look well, my friend," she said simply, with a sigh. "Here, I will let you rest, and return later. "

With a gentle and weary smile, the woman took her leave, letting Jack alone with his guards and his demons.

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Time dragged on at a crawl in their prison, the light of day a distant memory. That part of it pained her; to have the sun and its warmth for so few scant days, only for it to be taken away form her once again. The slow and distant bellows that was her father's breath tickled Eleanor Lamb's ears though, and the girl knew that she could not remain bitter. Not tonight.

When at last her tears had been spent, and her tale of the surface world complete, Eleanor had released her protector form her embrace and allowed the man within the machine to fall into that fitful peace that Big Daddies so rarely knew; sleep. Even as he laid in slumber, slumped up against the wall for want of a cot that could support his bulk, the girl could not pull herself away.

She say beside him, her head on his shoulder, his breath a lullaby from distant memory, a song of simpler days. Days when Rapture's halls were painted in ivory and gold, when angels lay wreathed in rose petals, and her knight in shining armor stood immovable and invincible. Days when they had been but mindless slaves to a city of the damned. Then mother had returned.

That was a memory that none of Dr. Alexander's treatments had been able to purge. Father, beholden to the will of one of Dr. Lamb's lackeys, his arms stiff as he slowly removed his helmet. His face, so handsome beneath the glass, contorted in pain and rage as he raised the pistol to his temple. A single shot, a single scream, and then ten years of pain.

Shivering, the young woman slowly rose to her feet, her hands trembling as she placed them against the clasps and seals of her protector's helmet. She longed too see that face again, whole and unbroken, unmarred by blood and bone. With the hiss of escaping air, the armor loosened, and Eleanor paused and held her breath. Father slumbered still, and with a sigh of relief, she proceeded. Slowly, she removed the helmet. And then she struggled not to scream.

Gone was face of the man seared into her memory, with his ruddy skin and scruffy chin. Necrotic flesh hung to the barest outline of a skull, his eyes sunken pits ringed with greying hairless flesh. His nose was the faintest pair of slits, his lips paper thin. His breath rasped out from the holes where his nose should have been, the reek of death wafting from his mouth. Tears trickling down her face and hands trembling, she silently replaced the helmet on his head and reaffixed the seals before backing away from him in horror. She felt her back hit the wall and slowly sank the ground, her knees pulled to her chest.

What had happened to him? Where was the father she knew, her knight, her protector? When had he become this sullen, dead-looking thing, this walking corpse? And why?

With mounting dread in the pit of her stomach, Eleanor knew she had found her answer; he had died. Ten years rotting inside a metal coffin, a decade moldering in Rapture's sunken halls. A decade lost because of her. A death for her sake. Tears falling in a silent stream, the girl shuddered as guilt wracked her frame.

What right had she to decry the tortures her mother had visited upon her when Delta had lain dead at her hand? Eleanor Lamb wept bitter tears as her mind raced and whirled. All of the pain her father had endured, all of his agony, his _death_, all of them traced back to her. She was the root of his suffering, he the one man in the world who loved her unconditionally, unfailingly. She was the reason for his misery. The enormity of it all washed over her like a tidal wave.

"Father," she whispered between tears. "I am so, so _sorry_. I'll make it right somehow, I promise."

**End Chapter. Please review. We're on the road to the end, my friends. It's been a fantastic ride, and I thank you all for taking it with me. The finale arc starts now.**


	46. Echoes of the Past

**Disclaimer: Are these even necessary at this point? I DON'T OWN THE FRANCHISE! ALSO, TYPING IN ALL CAPS IS FUN. In this chapter, we get a wonderful staple of any good Cold War spy drama, clichéd as it may be (I regret nothing!) Now, onwards!**

The days had begun to pass in a blur. The doctors and engineers poured over the bits and pieces of Rapture that they had brought back with them off in their lab within the facilities depths, bursting into the cell with soldiers in tow whenever something demanded an "expert's" touch. Most often, it was Amir. Silently he would comply, and silently, he'd return, his fingers stained in grease and oil. Life continued in their concrete limbo, the hours blurring together into an indistinguishable crawl, moments hanging in memory like flies trapped in amber.

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Eleanor sat alone in what she had claimed as "her" corner, sullen and pensive in one of what were becoming her increasingly rare moments of free time. Her thoughts wandered with her eyes as she beheld the bleak room and the people within it. It had been some time since the new group, the ones that had come with Father, arrived, and she still had yet to learn their names. Not that she much cared to. Ever since Father had arrived, she hadn't much cared for anything…

Her thoughts strayed into dangerous territory there, and she was quick to curb them; she'd spent enough time wallowing in self-pity and loathing. Instead, she rallied herself with a sigh and focused on the young man striding towards her. Her mind fumbled for his name, but found none, much to her chagrin. He was of Middle Eastern descent; that much was clear, and somewhere in the back of her mind a distant memory cried out for attention but to no avail. Casually he sat down next to her, his brown eyes meeting her icy blues. She bristled uncomfortably.

"Can I help you?" she demanded, an edge creeping into her voice that she had not intended. She winced slightly at that. He seemed undeterred.

"You seem distracted," he offered, voice soft, sad, and distant, an echo from the past.

"I," she fumbled before resigning with a sigh. "Yes. I guess I just have a lot on my mind. The damned prison cell isn't helping. It feels as if I'd only just gotten out of one, and things-"

"Things aren't as you remember, are they," the young man interjected, his words not a question but a statement of fact.

"Well, yes," the girl answered him with a frown, "but how did you-"

"We all went through hell down there, but he bore the brunt of it, took the worst beating." Eleanor's words died in her throat as she realized in a heartbeat of whom the stranger spoke; Father. "I helped put him back together after the worst fight he'd had," the youth continued, this dark-skinned stranger of age with her, his face tickling the deepest recesses of her memory. "I saw his face; he's not much time left, I think. Make," he faltered here, his eyes averted, "make it worthwhile for him, will you? He's earned that much at least."

With that, the teenager took his leave, rising to his feet and turning away.

"Wait!" Eleanor called out, moving to grab his wrist. She succeeding in nearly wrenching his arm from its socket, and immediately recoiled in horror.

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, drawing her hands back in. "I, I guess I don't know my own strength…" Her mind returned to he innumerable nights beneath the doctor's needle, the vials upon vials of the glowing insidious bile they had pumped into her and all the poor twisted souls that ADAM had come from.

"Who are you?"

A mournful smile settled onto the boy's face, his eyes world-weary beyond his years. "Just a lost pup in a dog-eat-dog world, Ms. Lamb," he answered softly before walking away, his voice echoing in her mind as the walls built by time and pain at last crumbled. "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

With that, he left, leaving Eleanor alone with her memories, snapshots of a time before the madness, before Mother was imprisoned, before the needles and the workshop of horrors beneath the glittering façade of the Fontaine building. A time when she played with a boy named Amir, wonder in his eyes and a smile forever upon his lips. In silence and solitude, a tear rolled down Eleanor Lamb's cheek.

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"I need more time goddamn it!"

Andrew Kombes stared levelly at his young commanding officer. "That temper of yours is going to get you in trouble one of these days," Kombes answered him calmly. He had long since called Calhoun's bluff of insubordination charges; the young man needed his elder too much, and they both knew it.

"Aren't they happy with what we already have sent? The strides we've made in weapons technologies-"

"Is not enough to warrant the massive funds they have poured into this facility," Kombes interjected, "and you know it. You know what the Department of the Defense wants."

"Their _super-soldier_," Calhoun spat as he rubbed his brows and paced his new office. "The potential of the two armored individuals is tremendous, yes, but two heavily damaged models isn't enough. We need more samples, we need to go back!"

The older man bristled uncomfortably.

"What?" Calhoun snapped. "What aren't you telling me?"

Kombes sighed. "You didn't read the latest seismic report, did you?"

"Of course not! I've been up to my neck in red tape and progress reports from the labs. Why in the God's name should I give a damn about some geologists' prattle?"

"It wasn't from the USGS. It was from the monitoring station we set in North Atlantic."

The young commander felt all color drain from his face. His advisor took his silence as a cue to continue.

"It seems the impact from the submarine debris…destabilized the sea-floor upon which the site rested. From best we can tell with sonar analysis, a domino-effect collapse took place, starting with two complexes near the lip of the trench and extending out nearly the entire length of the city."

He paused for a moment, steeling himself for the young man's reaction.

"Rapture is gone. These are the only…. samples…we're going to get."

Calhoun was silent for a long painful moment. "Are you certain?" he asked meekly, his voice shaken.

Kombes nodded in silence before answering. "Whatever is left of that place is resting at the bottom of one of the deepest trenches on earth. The pressurized suits recovered, which are leaps and bounds ahead of any of our own models, would be crushed like tin cans at those depths." The older man's eyes softened as he met Calhoun's desperate gaze. "Its out of our reach, John. I'm sorry."

The young commander of the ONI calmed his breath with herculean expenditure willpower before turning to face his advisor with a mask of tranquility. Kombes felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle; it was the calm that came before the storm.

"Well then," Calhoun answered him, his words meticulous, his rage bubbling just beneath their surface. "It would appear that we have no choice but to proceed with the samples we presently have." The younger man paused, smoothing his jacket with shaking hands. "Give Dr. Adler a security detail and escort him to the holding cells to inspect his subjects. The Pentagon will have their results, one way or another."

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The hunched and bespectacled doctor leaned upon his cane as he stalked the halls of their prison, flanked on either side by armed guards. It clacked against the hard cold floors with an odd staccato beat, the aged scientist's beady eyes darting from ones side to the other. Tenenbaum's breath caught in her throat as she beheld him.

"So," he rasped at last, a haughty and proud German accent still flavoring his words. "Where are these ubermensch, hmm? These supermen who I am to replicate?"

He stopped before Jack, who had been trotted out from his bed by the guards for inspection.

"You," the doctor said, punctuating his words with the butt of his cane as he pushed it into Jack's chest. "You are de zauberer? The daemon shooting fire and lightning? We will unravel your riddle next." The old man scoffed. "As it is you look barely able to stand."

At last, he found himself before the Big Daddies, the twin titans of Rapture looming over him.

"Yes," he cooed as he beheld the two. "Now here is a marvel of engineering! A man of steel! A walking panzer! A golem of war, to use such a base," he bridled visibly at this, "Jewish tale."

He paced idly, claw-like fingers gripping the carved head of his cane tightly.

"The perfect soldier…. but you are trapped in there, no? And by all reports unable to speak, though intelligence remains. " The aged doctor sighed, before a dark smile began to play across his lips. "And if you can't tell us how you came to be such impeccable specimens, then the only way to find out is to take you apart piece by piece."

"Now wait just a minute," Carnegie snarled, "I know a dirty Kraut when I smell one. "

Almost pleadingly, the man faced the soldiers accompanying the German man. "Boys," he pleaded, " please tell you got a good reason for not shooting this fucking Nazi where he stands."

"I am here," the German interjected, a scowl upon his wrinkled face, "for the same reason that you are; your government knows value, opportunity, when its sees it." The man's smile darkened. "Would you rather that my considerable talents and I had ended up in the service of Stalin's Soviet Union? Hmm?"

Carnegie merely glared. "I'd rather you dead in an unmarked grave," he offered coldly.

The old man cackled. "As if you are the first to express such a wish," he managed between laughs. And then he beheld Tenenbaum. His eyes went wide as saucers, mouth agape to reveal yellowing teeth.

"I scarcely believe mein eyes," he said at last, shaking his head as a grin formed across pale cracked lips. "Das wunderkind der Auschwitz herself; Brigid Tenenbaum."

Doctor met doctor in stony glare, amusement playing across the elder's eyes.

"Dr. Adler," Tenenbaum said at last, voice ice. "I suppose it was too much to hope for you to be shot after the Nuremberg Trials with the rest of them."

"Oh, you see officially, I was," Adler tittered, his laugh an old man's rasp. "Tried and executed, along with so many of the Fuhrer's finest minds. Of course, the bodies that ended up in the coffins never did seem to match up with the names on the tombs." The one-time Nazi gave another rasping laugh before turning to face Carnegie once again. "Tell me, Mr. G.I.," he spat with a smirk, "does it crush you to know that the technological advantage that has kept America, your lauded 'land of the free', ahead, comes from people like me? Does it burn?"

The guards saw the punch coming from a mile away, and quickly subdued Carnegie with a rifle butt to the chest before he could even finish the swing. Adler shook his head in disdain.

"You see," he chided, "this is what comes of disrespect and uncooperativeness. Let it be a lesson." As the old soldier struggled back to his feet, the doctor turned and continued pacing. "Now," he announced, "with that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, is there anything you would like to share, hmm? Prove that you are worth more to me alive."

When silence reigned, the doctor frowned. "This is for your own benefit," he snarled. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't have you all strapped to dissection tables by this time tomorrow!"

A single voice in the crowd answered, echoing out from a soft spoken and slender youth with brown skin and brown eyes.

"An oracle," he answered, voice unwavering. "A computer with predictive algorithms the likes of which you can't even imagine." A faint smile played across the young man's lips. "Is that enough to buy our lives with?"

"Why my dear boy," Adler replied with a predatory smile. "In the right hands that'd be enough to buy the world."

**End Chapter. Yah, so finishing by the end of August… school tends to throw quite a wrench in writing schedules. It'll be done by the end of September (I hope) ! Anyways, thanks for all the continued support, and please keep up the reviews.**


	47. Ambition and Delusion

**Hey all. Sorry for the delays. Anyways, standard "I own nothing" here. **

**And a quick note to some curious reviewers over why the US government would have ex-Nazis working for them; this kind of thing actually happened. Look up Wernher von Braun. He was the architect of the German V2 missile program that killed so many Allied forces near the end of the war. He and a number of his team were secretly brought to the US by the government after the war, essentially given amnesty in return for helping to get the US rocket program of the ground (literally as well as figuratively). His work helped develop the Saturn series rockets that as used for both ballistic missiles and the Apollo program. So yeah…an ex-Nazi helped the US win the Space Race. The 50's/60's era satirist Tom Lehrer does a pretty funny song about him, and a number of other political/social issues of the time. The Cold War was a time of pretty loose morals on both sides…makes for some interesting stories. **

**But enough with the history lesson. Onwards to violence and explosions!(well maybe next chapter…)**

In a shadowed corner of their cell, beyond the peering eyes of security cameras and questing ears of their guards, two young men met.

"They buy it?" Billy breathed in a voice barely a whisper.

Amir simply nodded. "Hook, line, and sinker. They're nuts over the Thinker." He paused for a moment, smirking. "Never even occurred to them to check its code for bugs. Its almost cute watching them trying to figure out the programming and designs."

The bulkier youth nodded in approval. "Perfect. I'll pass it along to Carnegie. Will the kill switch be ready when we need it?"

"Just say the word, and the Thinker 2.0 goes out with a bang."

Billy nodded grimly. "Let's just hope it'll be enough," he breathed into the gloom that enveloped them. "Get back to Adler before they get suspicious. I'll tell Carnegie."

The darker skinned boy nodded, and with an unspoken farewell the two parted ways.

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Adler's cane clicked and clacked along the tiled floor as he assessed the line of Rapture's survivors before him.

"You," he said sharply, pointing the gnarled wood towards Sigma, who stood next to his beleaguered metal twin; none of them could ignore the strained breath and labored step that Delta had been acquiring over the last few days. Even the doctor.

"How would like to walk the earth as a man once more?"

His words hung in the air, thickly accented and heady. The German's eyes gleamed behind his spectacles, his wrinkled face drawn into a predatory smile.

"I know your kind," came a tired, bitter, and resolute voice. Grace Holloway stepped forward, her eyes narrowed, mouth a scowl. "You like to hurt just for the sake of hurtin'." Her face darkened even further, her cane gripped tight. "If either of those two tin can's come back to use in pieces, you'll have hell to pay."

Adler simply smiled. "Why my dear Ms. Holloway," he said with a sickly sweet smile. He had made it a point of learning each of their names, each of their stories. Their values to him and his ends. "I would never dream of causing them harm. They are no use to me as damaged goods."

Sigma snarled at the elderly man before him, and as one the soldiers trained their rifles towards him.

"We're still people," Alice uttered darkly, her raven hair framing milk-white skin, her scar borne proudly upon her cheek. "You'd do well to remember that."

The doctor raised a brow at this. "Charming," he answered her in turn, deadpan. With a sigh he returned to the still fuming Big Daddy, his face a mask of sheer boredom. "Fine then, Herr Sigma," he continued, his voice oozing sarcasm. "Would you kindly accompany me to the lab so we might begin to free you of that prison of a suit?"

Jack Ryan froze, his heart skipping a beat. Through sheer willpower, he kept his face a mask of bitter disinterest, slowly scanning the crowd before him for any flicker of recognition. He wrung his hands anxiously, fingers brushing across that accursed tattoo. He'd stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago, but the moment passed uneventfully, Adler's hungering gaze fixed solely on the Big Daddies. At long last Subject Sigma gave an affirmative nod, and his steps thundered down the hallway was he followed the doctor away. Jack felt himself breathe once again, his chest still clutched in the echoes of an icy terror he'd thought banished years ago. Some fears never died, it seemed.

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"Are you alright, Jack?"

Tenenbaum's voice found him alone by his cot, head in his hands. Looking up, he gave her a mournful smile.

"I could ask you the same thing, Doc. You and Adler have a history, don't you?"

The German woman narrowed her brows, but with a sigh she relented and took a seat next to her one-time ally.

"I was young," she began. "Struggling to survive in the hell that was Auschwitz. My parents hardly made it past the gates; within a week they'd both been gassed." She spoke softly and quickly, tearing the scab off an old wound that had long since healed, baring it to the world once more. "I needed to find a way to survive, and eventually I found my way to the medical complex. I had a…skill…. for science even then, and the doctors recognized that quickly. Not long after that, I was a lab assistant in everything but name there."

She paused for a moment, composing herself before continuing. "Adler was one of the chief scientists there. A genius in biology and chemistry." She paused for a bitter laugh. "The Nazis actually had him working on much the same project as he is here; the super-soldier," she spat bitterly. "The experiments he performed were…grotesque. Monstrous. Even, even compared to what I did…I don't want to even think of what he could accomplish with access to ADAM."

"Then we pull the plug on this before it gets to that point, Doc. That was always the plan, right?" Jack's gaze softened as he came to a second realization; the way Tenenbaum seemed to fear the old man, how she seemed to shrink whenever he came around. "Your past with him goes deeper than that though, doesn't it?"

The woman glared icily at her companion. "Being young and pretty in the camp was more curse than blessing," she answered him bitterly, and then said no more. Silence reigned as man and woman sat festering in haunting memories, ghosts of their pasts returned from the dead.

"He'll get what he deserves," Jack offered finally, pathetically.

Tenenbaum was silent for a long time before she met his gaze, her weathered face drawn tight with determination. "Oh yes. Yes he will."

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"Captain Kombes," a voice from behind him called out, and with a sigh the military man turned to find one of the prisoners, Carnegie, walking towards him. He'd made it a habit of inspecting the conditions of their "guests" every other day, seeing which of their needs and wants he could accommodate; it kept his own conscience soothed, and the CIA off of his back.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Carnegie?" the old soldier answered him, turning to face the would-be petitioner. "I thought I had laid everything out for you; your new identities will be ready by week's end. They're being handled in-house. Complete anonymity and amnesty."

Carnegie nodded. "I, I just wanted to thank you, one soldier to another."

_One soldier to another_. Kombes' gut churned; if only this man, this once brother-in-arms, knew the deal with the devil he had made. Knew how he'd sold all of them to the spooks and ghosts of the CIA. Then he'd curse him with all his soul. Carnegie continued, blissfully unaware of the war that raged within his companion.

"You've been a friend to us when we needed one, and for all us, I wanted to thank you. "

Seething with self-loathing, the captain forced a small smile. "Of course," he answered amiably. "If there's anything else you folks need, don't hesitate to let me know."

With that, Andrew Kombes departed, struggling to find a way to live with himself.

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"How goes it?"

Calhoun sat at his desk nursing his second whiskey; his personal store was running low, and he'd have to restock soon. As he listened to Adler drone about the project, his words nigh indeterminable between the man's accent and technical jargon, internally the ONI's commander ran through the number of ways in which he despised the man. One thing he couldn't argue with though is that the former Nazi got results.

"The Thinker," the German doctor continued, "is nearly operational. If the subjects are to be believed, then its computational abilities will be invaluable to calculating the proper treatment of Subject Sigma's genetic damage." Here paused for a moment, stroking his chin.

"It is curious; the same compound, this ADAM, that is used in the Thinker's processor's is also an extraordinary therapeutic compound. In correct dosage, it can correct almost any kind of genetic or physical damage. Done incorrectly…it's a mutagen the likes of which I've never seen. The difficult part is figuring out doses for each type of tissue that won't do more harm than good. That's where the Thinker comes in."

"Doctor," Calhoun interrupted drily, fumbling slightly over his words. "As much as our prisoners' wellbeing concerns me," he continued, his voice oozing sarcasm. "How is this relevant to this project's goals?"

"Dummkopf!" Adler exclaimed, rattling his cane. "Do you not see the potential of this? These reports you have of this man Jack Ryan throwing lightning, the physical might of Subjects Delta and Sigma? ADAM did that! These side effects they experience are merely the results of bad science; these children at Rapture were playing with fire, and they were burned. Give me a year with this compound and a full laboratory, and you'll have your super-soldier."

Adler's eyes were gleaming now, the mad glint of a man with a vision. "Modify the armor and weapons the subjects brought with them, and you'll have an infantryman nothing short of an artillery shell will stop!"

In one fluid motion, Calhoun drained his drink, upended his glass, and looked directly into the old Nazi's eyes.

"What do you need?"

"More subjects," Adler answered immediately. "The work with Sigma has taught us much, but its not enough. If I am to overcome the maladies that come with ADAM's use, I need to see them at work."

The whiskey snaked through his gut, but Calhoun still had his mind. For now.

"You mean Delta?"

The scientist nodded. "The creature only has weeks left to live, and that's being generous. A dissection is good, but a vivisection…" Adler's voice trailed off, but his eyes remained locked onto the ONI's commander, cold and calculating. "Let me make the poor beast be of some use before he expires."

Jonathan Calhoun grit his teeth as he turned the doctor's words over in his mind, his eyes straying to the reports upon his desk; the Pentagon wanted results, or his funding would disappear.

"Do it," he said at last. "But make it look like an accident. Say you're taking him in for the same treatment as Sigma, and let there be _complications_."

His tone of voice left no question as to what nature those complications would be.

With a nod and a smile, the German left, leaving his young companion in desperate need of another drink.

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Alone in a corner, Subject Delta sat with the voices of the past. With a click, the audio recorder he held rolled to its end, and with trembling fingers he took the next one. The shakes were becoming worse; he was taking Tenenbaum's witch's brew every few hours now, and it was still barely keeping his symptoms in check. There was no way around it; he was dying.

As the metal man sat, he thought. He thought of his life, his lives, the man he was above the waves and below. Did his sins in one extend to the other? Did his redemption? Had he ever even redeemed himself? Thoughts buzzed through his mind like flies, the recordings nothing more than white noise. He did not know the answers to those questions, but he did know one thing; he was tired. Tired of plodding through existence as someone's tool; someone else's soldier, guardian, or liberator. He was tired of being a golem, a husk cut off from the world around him. He'd never feel the kiss of a breeze upon his face, never know another's touch upon his skin. He was tired of this life.

Footsteps broke him from his reverie, and turning the Big Daddy found himself facing a somber Alice. With an exhausted, silent cynicism, he wondered how she now intended to use him. The girl was fully free of her Big Sister suit at last, baggy sweatpants and shirt hanging loosely about her thin frame. Her tangled mess of hair had been tamed, long locks shielding her face, her scar, from the world. Her skin was porcelain, hardly touched by the sun, and for the first time Delta saw something besides sorrow and pain painted across it. He saw a smile.

It was faint, it was mournful, but it was there. Peeking out from behind the shifting curtain of raven hair like the sun behind storm clouds, she smiled as she silently sat next to her Daddy. Wordlessly, she curled next to him, her head laid against his shoulder. Now questions came. No requests or tasks. Unbidden, his mind could only compare this to Eleanor. To the hell he'd gone through for her. The hell she'd asked him to go through. But Alice? Perhaps there was at least one soul who saw him as more than a mere tool.

Gently, the metal man put aside his recordings and his broken memories. He could be content with the present, maybe. At least for a little longer.

**End Chapter. Yikes. Sorry this took so long folks. School and an ongoing bout of pneumonia. So yay me. Anyways, we're just about done here; I'm only thinking one or two more chapters, tops. It's been a hell of a ride, and I thank you all for sticking with me through it. Please keep up the reviews and feedback; its what keeps me going.**


	48. Rebirth

**I'm ALIVE! Yes folks, after the month of September figured I should be sick for almost its entirety and throw in a half dozen exams, I'm back! My schedule has been shot to hell, but SoBD is still on track to finish up…eventually. We're getting there, I promise, but as for when those chapters will get posted…who knows. This one is shorter than usual, I know, but circumstances were less than favorable for me to be writing. Hopefully I'll have better luck with what's left of October…**

In a greasy diner in a small town in northern Maine, Andrew Kombes sat with an acrid cup of coffee in his hands and a scowl on his face. The booth he sat at reeked of nicotine and age, its table as pitted and scratched as the surface of the moon. As the sun crept overhead in its vain struggle to banish the morning chills and fog, the old soldier sighed and looked out through the hazy window towards the rest of the small fishing town. August was halfway over, and by the end of the month the place would be a ghost town most likely; this far north, winter started early and stayed late. With another sigh, he took a sip of the black sludge in his mug.

A tinkling of the doorbell roused the man from his reverie though, and turning Kombes found the man he had been waiting for. The Southerner ambled in like he owned the place, shooting the young blonde hostess a smile before strolling over to the booth.

"How's the pie looking today?"

Kombes had been to enough of these sorts of meetings to know that the agent wasn't referring to the unappetizing globs of cherry and crust currently adorning the diner's counter.

"I'm not sure," the soldier responded coolly. "I think they may have rushed it."

His company frowned at that.

"Did you try talking to the cook?" he questioned casually, idly stealing a piece of nigh-fossilized bacon from Kombes' plate before grimacing at its taste.

"You know that boy doesn't listen to a word I say."

"Perhaps its time for some new management, then?"

New management. He made it sound so casual. The Agency's "new management" usually involved a silenced pistol and a shallow grave. Kombes chose his words carefully.

"I don't think they need anything that extreme here," he offered, forcing down another gulp of the alleged coffee. "Give it a little more time; maybe the cooking staff will listen to what I have to say."

The Southerner gave a dark smile. "Let's hope so, pal," he said brusquely as he flipped a quarter onto the table as his tip. "I'd hate to see this place have to close down."

His veiled treats echoing in the soldier's head, the man departed as quick as he came, leaving Kombes with a sickening feeling in his gut that was more than just the coffee.

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"Initial tests of the Thinker are extremely promising," the old doctor spoke into his recorder, body sunken into his armchair. Adler ran his fingers through his thinning hair with a sigh; the years were beginning to catch up to him, and more importantly to his mind. This would be his last great project. His opus.

"Complex calculus and physics are child's play for it, though we have yet to work out the predictive equations the Arab boy spoke of. They exist, to be sure, but their exact application eludes us…for now. We begin the corrective surgeries and treatments for Subject Sigma in earnest tomorrow; it will be the computer's first real test. The individual calculations are simple enough, but the sheer number of them and their various permutations is staggering. I've high hopes for the system."

With the click of a button, the old Nazi ended his recording, removed the tape, and placed it with the rest of his records. The old man swirled the contents of the beer stein he held in his hand; it could hardly compare to the Fatherland's best, but he had to grudgingly admit that the Americans could make a half decent brew. Thoughts of home stung the old man's heart; it crushed him to see what his nation had become, fragmented and weak, one side a puppet of the west, the other a puppet of the east. To have risen so high, achieved so much, only to fall so far… He drowned his sorrows in his lager and turned is thoughts elsewhere.

No, he would not be returning to the land of his fathers any time soon. That didn't mean he couldn't enjoy his impending retirement, though. The doctor allowed himself a small smile at that thought. Perhaps he would go somewhere warm. Somewhere with a view of the sea…

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"Dr. Adler."

She prayed her voice did not quiver, did not betray the terror that clutched at her heart, even after all this years.

The old man paused as he click-clacked his way down the tiled hall with his cane. "Yes, my dear?"

His voice sent a shudder down Tenenbaum's spine. His tone was sickly sweet, and all too familiar.

"I wish to be present for Herr Sig-, Herr Porter's final surgeries. I owe him that much."

Unspoken between them went her second reason; her utter lack of trust in the old snake. He'd fight her on it, she knew, but she was ready. She'd be there no matter what.

"But of course, Brigid. I can always use another set of hands and eyes. Was that all?"

The woman was floored, and Adler smiled wolfishly as she scrambled for words.

"Good," he answered for her, cutting off her stuttered, half born response. "Be at the operating theater in an hour. So good of you to help, my dear."

With that, the old Nazi took his leave, cane rattling away once more.

"No harm will come to him, I swear it" he called as he departed. "I am a man of my word, if nothing else."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Tenenbaum muttered to himself as she watched the old man leave, wondering just what other oaths he had sworn, and to whom.

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The steady hum and beep of the medical equipment was music to Adler's ears, the orchestra following in step to his symphony.

"Nurse," he snapped, "I need a scalpel and sutures." He paused for a moment and looked again at his patient. "And the crowbar."

Sigma was laid out on the operating table, with IV's feeding him enough sedative to knock out a small elephant. With so many of the man's organs grafted into the suit, removing the armor was easier said than done. They were down to the final few pieces, however.

More man than machine peeked out with each piece of the suit they removed. Chocolate colored flesh met the open air for the first time in decades, its surface warped with weeping sores and boils. Scars marked its pathetic attempts to stretch out over the gross musculature that had been grown beneath it. The body had been grown to fit the suit, with the strength needed to move it.

The doctor suppressed a shudder of excitement. The strength these creatures must have possessed; how he so wished to have been able to see them in action. Still, there was time for such musings later. He returned his full attention to the surgery. It was meticulous work. Inch by inch, he'd pull back the metal shell, discover what had been stitched to its underside, and carefully return inside the man's torso what had been brought out. Kidneys, liver, nearly his entire digestive tract; it was astounding the sheer amount of internal plumbing that been rearranged, and the doctor's calculating mind could see why. The suit was not just armor; it was a prison. These men would serve the purpose they were built for until their dying breath, because the source of their strength held their very body hostage. There was something poetic in that, the old Nazi thought idly as his nimble fingers tackled the next stretch of intestine.

At long last, his work with the chest plate was complete, and the last piece of armor came free. From the ribs down, Porter's stomach was a patchwork labyrinth of cuts and scars, the fresh ones barely held shut. Tenenbaum had been insistent about stitches being unnecessary before leaving to prepare the ADAM injections as calculated by the Thinker. If the incisions weren't closed soon though, the man would certainly perish, and that would mean paperwork. The doctor frowned; he _hated_ the American fetish for paperwork. It was nothing at all like the good old days. The Fuhrer and the SS had trusted him fully to proceed in the interests of the Reich. _They_ never bogged him down with enough red tape to sink a battle ship.

Reminiscing, the man hummed to himself as he snipped and dabbed up samples of the pus, blood, and tumors that abounded on his patient's flesh. He really did hope that Tenenbaum would hurry; it wouldn't do to have Porter die on them and tarnish his surgery record.

As if on cue, the woman in questions trundled into the operating theater, cart full of clanking vials and syringes in tow.

"Its about time," Adler called, harsh as a crow, his hands flying through Sigma's innards. "Now what are you waiting for?"

She scowled at that, but obeyed nonetheless; time was of the essence. Each bottle and syringe had been labeled. Heart, spine, biceps, triceps, liver; each needed to be injected into their proper tissue, and soon. With practiced hands, she set to work, emptying bottle and syringes as quickly as she could, the squelch of the hypo's plungers filling the air until at last only one remained.

With shaking hands, Dr. Tenenbaum held the final syringe of ADAM before her eyes, carefully inspecting it. The dosages had been meticulously calculated by the Thinker, precisely diluted and measured. It had to be; any more, or any less, and it would do more harm than good. She breathed deep, and slid the cold metal beneath dark skin. At long last, they were finished.

Organs had been stitched back into place, weeping sores cleaned and treated, slashed vocal cords reaffixed and healed through the power of ADAM. Charles Milton Porter was a ragged and battered man, but he was a man once again. With a sigh of satisfaction, the doctor gave Adler a grudging nod of respect, her teeth jaw clenched tight. She could not deny how marvelous a surgeon the man was; she could still hate him, though. The tired woman slowed the sedative drip that had kept the man who had been Sigma unconscious. Now all that remained was to wait.

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"How much longer are they going to be in there?"

Becky Langford's brusqueness was a reflection of the general mood of the group assembled outside the operating theater. It had been hours, and beyond Tenenbaum's panicked trip to the Thinker, no one had gone in or out.

With a crash like thunder, the doors burst open and out strode a triumphant Adler, manic grin upon his face.

"My finest work in decades, if I do say so myself! The complexity of the treatments, the danger… how invigorating! Oh how I do love a challenge."

It was then that the old German noticed the bewildered stares of his audience. "Oh," he continued nonchalant, "perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Herr Porter! Won't you come out please?"

It was the creak of a wheelchair and not the deep basso drum of metal boots that greeted their ears as Tenenbaum pushed the chair into the light. A great scar ran across the width of his neck and his skin was peppered with fresh cuts and stitches, but the man couldn't help but smile.

He gave a slight wheeze, and then spoke.

"Hello," a deep gentle voice issued out, before pausing as if startled by the sound of it. The man in the wheelchair only smiled more broadly, hints of tears clinging to his eyes. "Its…its nice to formally meet you all now. My name is Charles Milton Porter."

A single tear trickled down his cheek.

"And you have no idea how good it feels to be able to say that."

**End Chapter. Please review and whatnot. **


	49. Sibling Rivalry

**Disclaimer: Are these even necessary any more? Does anyone seriously read them? I feel like I can write anything up here and no one will even notice. Monkeys like bananas flying purple hippopotamus in a top hat. Abraham Lincoln storming the beaches of Normandy in a tuxedo. Point and case.**

Tenenbaum gently rolled the man who had been Sigma down the halls of the facility in his wheelchair, adamant not to let her patient out of her sight. The guards followed a half pace behind them, stoic and stone-faced, as usual.

"Doctor," Porter said at last, his voice soft and deep. "I appreciate the pampering, but after so many years in that damned suit, being confined to a chair…well it just feel quite right."

The doctor gave a mournful smile. "Herr Porter," she began, "I am amazed that you are able to even sit upright after what you just went through. I am certain walking can wait at least a few more hours, for the ADAM to fully heal all of the internal damage." She gave a solemn smile, "You are lucky to be alive, you know that don't you?"

Porter could only smile. "Of course. And I'm thanking you for every minute for it."

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Captain Kombes sat at his desk, his face in his hands. Fat stacks of paper cluttered the aged wood, novels worth of briefings and reports. A thick manila folder was the current source of his anguish, its contents splayed out atop all others. Airtight alibis, faultless forgeries, false ID's; everything a person needed to disappear back into society. Everything that these people, his prisoners, deserved. And he was to turn over copies to the CIA, doom them to a life of observation, tracking, cataloguing. If their actions were deemed suspect enough, if they were labeled hazards, then that was it. In a heartbeat, they'd be gone, no trace left, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that that day would come. They'd be quietly erased from American society and forgotten.

That was what had cost him more sleep than anything else. With shaking hands, he snapped the folder shut and slid it into a desk drawer; the copies could wait, at least for a few more days. A cynical half-laugh passed through his lips; he needed time to crush his conscience before he could play Judas. He tried to focus on the good that they had done thus far; returning those little girls to their families, giving Sigma, no, Porter, back his life . Yet all of it paled in comparison to what was now asked of him. What duty to his country now demanded of him.

With a sigh, he locked the drawer shut. He could wait a few more days to put the blood of innocents on his hands.

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Charles Milton Porter slept better than he had in a decade that night, his dreams quiet for the first time in just as long. As he slept, his dreams turned once more to Pearl, of love lost to the fires of war and ravages of time. But he did not dream of those times. Visions of happier times played before his eyes, of quiet evenings on the banks of the Thames, of their cruise across the Atlantic. Of their wedding. And for a time, Charles Milton Porter was happy, a smile spreading across his weathered face.

As silently as he could, Subject Delta slowly entered the room. He stepped with care, his every footfall a resounding thud if he didn't. In the silence and the dark, he looked upon the form of a man who mere hours ago had been a mirror image of himself. He had always wondered what he would've looked like beneath the steel and brass and glass, and looking now upon Porter's form, he had his answer. Before him was flesh and bone, a battered man with patchwork scars and a story behind every cut, but a man nonetheless. And that fact tore at his soul. It was a hot knife twisted in his heart to look upon the man who had been Sigma and know that he could never have that. Ten years of death had stolen that chance of normalcy from him. It was an unspoken truth, a grim twist of fate that everyone knew but refused to face him with. He knew what awaited him beneath the helmet. He knew the monster he had become, the face of death that rode atop his body, more machine than man. This body, this freedom, was not for him. It never could be. No, all that awaited Subject Delta was another death, to die as he had lived, cold and alone, a tool to be used and then discarded.

Hands trembling, he looked upon the sleeping form of his comrade, the normalcy that was lost to him. All that was left to him was death, another death as slave, as a tool. And this time, there was no coming back. There were no Vita-Chambers for him to play Lazarus with, no way for him to resurrect back into this broken form. He was an expendable piece of flesh and metal, a dog to sic on whatever enemy his master deemed. How many of his enemies had been his own? How many fights had he fought for his own sake, for his own reasons?

He knew the answered to that already. He had stopped existing for his own sake the day he had been locked into the suit, robbed of his memories, his face, his very identity. His life stolen from him and twisted to another's purposes. Subject Delta shuddered as another convulsion wracked his body, agony searing through his veins until with shaking hands he was able to inject another dose of Tenenbaum's cure. It was a grim reminder of what little time he truly had left, and it hardened his heart. Two lives lived, and what did he have to show for it? A pitiful existence as a thug and a crook on the surface world, if Poole was to be believed, and then years as the army's dog. He'd lived a few short months as a hero in Rapture, the brave Johnny Topside, and then the shackles had gone right back on. He'd been a monster, a mindless golem of flesh and steel made only to kill. And he'd been good at it. So good that his darling "daughter" had brought him back for a repeat performance, had him pave a road of bodies to reach her. And then came Tenebuam's requests, and then Carnegie's.

With a shudder, Subject Delta left the room. He was tired. Tired of playing the butcher, the soldier, the pawn for people who cared nothing for him. He was tired of seeing what it cost him, the things he had lost, and how little it had given him. He had lived two lives as a slave, but this time, he vowed, he would die as a man.

He was done dancing to the tune of another, done living as a dog, a slave. He would never bow to the will of another again. And God help the man who expected him to.

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Morning came painfully quickly, and all too soon the prison had resumed its normal cycles. Tests were performed, the survivors of Ryan's nightmare interrogated, made to cooperate in cracking the secrets of their old hell.

For Eleanor Lamb, it was both a blessing and a curse. As far as the soldiers and the horrid Dr. Adler were concerned, she was nothing but a teenage girl, innocence stolen by Rapture, but largely ignorant of its workings. How little they truly knew. She spent her days largely in solitude, now that the little ones had been returned to their homes. She was happy, and yet, at the same time, she could feel a hole in her heart. She had lost her purpose, her mission, and nothing quite seemed right anymore. She needed guidance; she needed her Father.

Winding through the halls of their prison like a ghost, her eyes glanced over the scenes that played before her. Auntie Grace sat at Mr. Porter's bedside, talking animatedly with him; it seemed that once reunited with his voice, the two had found common ground. Her face fell slightly when their words met her ear, and she realized what that common ground was; loss. The place seemed so empty, so lifeless without the children. Tenebaum and Amir worked under the watchful eyes of the soldiers and Dr. Adler, picking apart one machine after the next, with Carnegie consulting. Billy Parson sat comforting his mother, Jack Ryan and his daughters together in another room under the watchful eyes of the guards.

At last, she reached the corner Father had seemingly claimed. He sat still as a statue, the aged and fraying pages of a newspaper in his hands, trembling. She'd heard the story of that newspaper from Carnegie, heard what it had told. What it had done to Father. It gave her one more reason to want to burn Stanley Poole to a crisp. For a time, she simply watched. His voice had been stolen from him, and his face made a blank mask, but she could feel the agony, the rage, that tore through his soul. Enough of their empathetic connection remained for that. It frightened her.

"Father," she began, voice tremulous. She stood in the doorway awkwardly. "May, may I come in?"

Her voice seemed to rouse him from his reverie, and turning slowly, the Big Daddy turned to face her, his glass face blank as ever. He sat for a moment, in silence, looking over her, before simply turning back to face the paper, as if she'd been nothing but a passing breeze.

Eleanor's heart skipped a beat.

"Father?" she quested, in disbelief. "It, its me."

Silence was her only answer. Her Protector's back remained turned, and her heart cracked. She couldn't take this. All of the pain and strife of the past months caught her in a wave, and she felt her knees go weak.

"Father? Please. I, I need to talk to talk to you. I need your help. I don't know what to do. "

Biting back tears, she could only watch as the Big Daddy slowly rose to his feet, gently replaced the newspaper in a storage pocket on his suit, and left the room in silence. Eleanor Lamb's world shattered in a heartbeat, and shaking she sank to the ground. Back to the wall, she held her head in her hands and cried. None of it made sense.

What had changed? What had she done? He had been her rock, her compass, her conscience, and now he wouldn't even look at her. Her mind raced, wild thoughts and fears spiraling out of control until the tap of footsteps on the tile caught her attention.

"Well, if you ask me it's about time," Alice said, arms folded across her chest.

"I, I beg your pardon?"

Alice met her gaze coolly, one eye permanently hiding behind a curtain of raven black hair. "You heard me."

Eleanor stifled her sob and rose to her feet. "What do you mean _about time_," she hissed, anger seeping into her tone.

The other Big Sister was unimpressed. "I meant exactly what I said. Its about time Daddy saw you for what you are. All you do is hurt him. You don't deserve him."

Alice's words cut like knives, and Eleanor could feel the anger rising within her. She felt the fire begin to stir upon her fingertips, but willed it to die; it'd serve no one if their jailors found them out to be something more than a pair of teenagers. Distantly, she remembered this girl. Memories of a sobbing Little Sister standing astride her Daddy's broken body, and Father putting himself between her and the Splicers. Her lips curled slightly.

"You don't exactly have much room to talk, Alice." She spat the name with venom she didn't knew she had possessed.

Alice's brow twitched ever so slightly, a mad glint in her one visible eye for a split second before she took a deep breath to compose herself. "All you do is take," she volleyed back. You take, and you beg, and he bows to your every request, and do you know what it got him?"

"Nothing but misery, that's what! Do you have any idea what he went through trying to find you? And what's the thanks he gets? You leave him to rot back down in that hell!"

Eleanor Lamb's retort died in her throat. Alice's acid tongue had delivered with it an epiphany. What had Father ever asked of her? He'd given up everything for her, his whole life, and what had she ever done for him in return? She'd gotten him a bullet through the head and another slow death. The tears returned. Alice ranted on, her one visible eye slowly reddening.

"You have no idea what you put him through! What he gave up for you! He, he slaved for you, bled for you, died for you! You were his whole world, and you didn't give a damn about him!"

Eleanor had had enough. Wiping the tears from her face, she rose to her feet and glared at her opposite number. There was a time she would've pitied the girl, but not tonight. Not after what she'd said.

"Jealous much?" she asked, mockingly casual.

The shriek Alice loosed was as piercing as any screamed in Rapture, and in the blink of an eye, she'd closed the distance between them, her eyes ablaze. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles whiter than bone, with smoke curling out from the gaps between her fingers.

"You have no idea what its like," the girl spat, ruby lips curled into a snarl. "No idea how it is to go through life knowing that, no matter what, you'll always be second best! You didn't spend 10 years as someone's tool, someone's puppet, and then have it all thrown back in your face! Every single failure, every monstrous thing you ever did, all coming back in a rush!" Tears freely streamed down Alice's face, tiny trails of crystal down porcelain flesh, and still she spoke.

"So jealous? Jealous doesn't even begin to cover it! You don't deserve to be loved the way he loves you, to have him protect you. Where's my unconditional love? Where's my guardian angel? Why, why won't he love me?"

Her rage was spent, and all that was left to Alice was sorrow. Sobs crashed upon her form like a waves on the shore, grinding her anger and pain away until nothing was left but a hole in her heart.

Eleanor Lamb was silent as the grave as Alice's words echoed through her head.

"I don't deserve him either," she said at last, in a voice barely more than a whisper. She gave a bitter laugh. "I guess he finally realized that."

Alice stifled her sobs for a time, and met Eleanor's eyes with her own puffy red pair.

"I wanted to hate you," she confessed, voice still tremulous. "From the moment I learned who you were, and what that meant for me, I hated you, hated what you stood for. I dreamed of this, of you being some cruel and selfish bitch, and Daddy leaving you behind. Of finally loving me like he loved you." He voice was small and meek, her eyes downcast. "But, now that I'm here, now that I've seen you. I don't know what to think. We've both lost him, now."

With a heavy heart, Eleanor Lamb had to admit that she was right; she'd taken her rock, her anchor, for granted. And now he was lost to her.

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"Dr. Adler,"

The name left a bad taste in her mouth, but Brigid Tenenbaum fought the rising bile in her throat. This was important.

The aging German stopped his steady hobble down the hall and turned to face the scientist. Tenenbaum continued.

"I noticed that the nurses were restocking the operating theater. A follow up for Sigma?"

The old Nazi merely delivered one of his sickeningly sweet smiles, yellowed teeth peeking out from behind his lips. "No, nothing to worry about, my dear. Simply a stabilization procedure for Subject Delta. Based off of the data collected from the operations on Sigma, a few strategic injections should at the very least ease our metal friend's pain."

Tenenbuam fought to keep her face level. "I see," she answered coolly. "In that case, I'd be happy to assist. It is my area of expertise, after all."

Adler gave a disconcerting chuckle. "Oh, that will not be necessary, Brigid. We have things well under control. It is a simple procedure, and surely your talents are better put to use elsewhere." Glancing at his wristwatch, the old man shook his head. "My, my, how time does get away from us." He flashed one last unsettling smile towards his former assistant. "Do have a pleasant day, doctor. I'll check on you later."

With that, Adler continued on his way, and Tenenbaum's fears were confirmed. She had seen the equipment they had been rolling in, and she knew how Adler worked. He wasn't planning on stabilizing Delta; he was preparing to cut him open. His sweetly phrased denial of her request to assist all but confirmed it. Sweat beading on her brow, the doctor hurried back to Carnegie and the rest of the survivors. They were out of time.

**Hey all. Apologies for the delays. I've given up on any kind of time table/chapter cap for finishing this. It'll be done when its done, damn it! The confrontation between Alice and Eleanor was fun to write, so I do hope everyone enjoyed it. Please review. In other news, my deepest condolences to any and all affected by Hurricane Sandy, and to any and all American readers 18 or up, go vote today!**


	50. Turning the Tables

**Disclaimer: Still don't own nothing (or by the power of double negatives, I could in fact own EVERYTHING. Which is it, hmm?)**

**Also, some clarification from last chapter. The girls Kombes referred to weren't Jack's daughters (who are still very much with us), but the second generation Little Sisters that Eleanor had brought to the surface with her. They're the ones that Kombes returned to their families. Sorry for the confusion folks.**

Carnegie had been silent the entire time while Tenenbaum related what Adler had said. At the end, he rose to his feet and met the doctor with his stony gaze.

"We need to get out of here, now. Split up, find the others, give them the short version.

Tenebaum looked at him, eyes wild. "And then?"

The weathered old soldier cracked a rare smile. "I think I might have an idea or two."

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"Up and at em', big guy. We've got work to do."

Subject Delta turned to find Michael Carnegie's stocky form in his doorway, gaze locked on target. The Big Daddy contemplated the man for a moment, and then turned away, running his fingers over the crumbling paper and faded ink of the news clipping he held. A twitch ran its way through Carnegie's brow.

"Cute, Delta. Real mature. But you may want to hear this next bit. Adler plans on cutting you open to figure out what makes you tick. We need to get out, and soon."

His only answer was silence. With a frown and a crack of his knuckles, Michael Carnegie decided to do something immensely stupid.

"You're pissed because you're walking around with an expiration date on you. I get that."

In the blink of an eye, the metal man was on his feet, blank glass gaze boring a hole into the man's chest.

"Life dealt you a shit hand, buddy, and I feel for you, really I do. But sitting there moping ain't about to make it isn't going to make things better, is-"

His retort was cut short as a metallic blur slammed into his chest and crushed him up against the wall. Delta's glass face rested inches from his, light the color of blood glaring out.

"I'm not promising you the cure, Delta," Carnegie managed to spit out, wincing at the pain. "But I can promise you that if you stay here, they're going to kill you. Cut you up like a science project so they can figure out how to make more of you. Trap more people in those damn suits."

"Its your choice, big man. Die like a lab rat for some goddamn Nazi's amusement, or die like a man, on your own terms. What's it going to be?"

Rage and pain and hate all flew through Subject Delta's mind as he glared at the rapidly reddening man he held aloft. How simple of a matter it would be, he pondered, to crush this insolent man like a bug. But deep down, in the pit of his heart, he knew Carnegie was right. He had been a slave to the Army, then Ryan and Fontaine…then Eleanor. He would die a free man, not some scientist's plaything, no matter the cost. Casually, he let Carnegie fall to the floor, the older man clutching at his throat and gasping for air.

"I take it," the man managed between coughs, "I take it you're in?"

Delta gave a solemn nod. He would feel the sun on his face one last time before he died, no matter what.

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"Well, quite ze audience we have today, eh?"

Dr. Adler clicked his cane against the floor, a honeyed smile masking his irritation. It seemed the whole group had turned out for Delta's surgery. He noted Carnegie and his paramilitary hooligans off to the side next to the two sullen teenage girls that had come up from Rapture with them. There was something odd about those two; it was only a matter of time before he figured out what it was, he assured himself. Jack Ryan stood in chains next to his daughters, a glimmer in his eye that the doctor found unsettling. He had hoped to have broken that man by now. Even more surprising was the presence of the former Subject Sigma, Charles Milton Porter, standing upright, and unassisted. Truly, the doctor thought, a testament to the medical potential of ADAM.

"We take care of our own, doc, remember that."

And there was Carnegie, Adler noted with a restrained grimace. The man was proving to be quite the irritation. Perhaps it'd be for the best if he were to suffer an unfortunate accident. No matter. That was a project for another day. Best to focus on the task at hand.

"But of course," he answered with a sugary smile. "Now, Herr Delta, if you please, come with me."

The Big Daddy stepped forwards laboriously, his breath a death rattle. The second step was even rougher, metal clad legs buckling. On the third, he collapsed, clattering to one knee on the tile floor of their prison, hands bracing himself against the ground. The Rapturians cried out in alarm as their bastion tumbled to the floor with a pained moan. The guards, already on edge, lunged forward, their rifles trained on the downed behemoth. Adler merely frowned.

"Don't hurt him!" a girl screamed. He paid no attention to the voice's owner; he was sick of putting on this charade.

"Up," the doctor growled. When his only answer was another pained moan, he nodded to one of the guards. "Give our guest some motivation, would you?"

Assault rifle in hand, the grizzled guard advanced. "Up and at em', tin man. You heard the doc. Besides," he spat as he launched a savage kick towards a gap in the Big Daddy's armor, "around here we favor the stick a bit more than the carrot!"

Delta let out a plaintive moan as Alice and Eleanor cried out once more. As the guard wound up for his second strike, Carnegie gave a slight cough and a nod of his head. Then all hell broke loose.

The Big Sisters disappeared in a puff of purple mist as Jack Ryan's hands erupted in flames, the metal of his handcuffs glowing cherry red. Delta's arm lashed out like a whip, crashing into his assailant's legs. The metal man rose to his feet as the guard toppled with a scream, just as Alice and Eleanor appeared behind two other soldiers, and with ADAM enhanced strength slammed a fist into the backs of their heads, crumpling them like ragdolls. With a roar, Jack Ryan rent his handcuffs in two, splatters of red hot steel spraying forth as the fires were replaced by sparks, and a blast of crackling electricity shot forth from his palms. The final guard screamed in pain as spasms rocked his form, the gun clattering from his hands to the floor. In a heartbeat, Jack was there with a right hook to the man's head. He shook out his hand with a smirk as the guard toppled. As the first guard Delta had thrown to the ground moved to rise, Carnegie leapt forward and seized the man by the scruff of the neck before slamming his head back to the ground.

"Well," Adler said with a frown as he surveyed the downed men around him. "This is…unfortunate."

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A few minutes later, the guards had been stripped of their weapons and keys, bound, gagged, and stuffed unceremoniously into the maintenance closet. Carnegie, Billy, Amir, and Jack had taken the rifles, distributing the pistols to the women who lacked the ability to throw fireballs and teleport. Delta stood with his hand palming about the top of Adler's balding head, ready to crush it like a rotten watermelon.

With a cool and collected stride, Dr. Tenenbaum walked towards her former mentor, her former torturer, and looked him straight in the eye.

"Come to gloat, Brigid?"he asked levelly. "Its unbecoming, especially for a lady." He gave his wolfish grin. "Then again, your people have never exactly been cut out for the finer aspects of civilization now have they?"

Tenenbaum's hand collided with the old man's face with a force that surprised even her.

"Doctor Adler," she spoke in a voice like ice. "In case you've failed to notice, Herr Delta here is perfectly able and willing to turn your head into a pulp. Cooperate with us, and I shall do my best to insure no harm comes to you." The lie burnt like acid on her tongue.

Adler laughed like a crow. "Oh Brigid," he chided, "you never were a very good liar. I know perfectly well that you hate me more than everyone else in this room combined." The old man shook his head with a smile. "You'd like nothing more than to empty that pistol you're carrying into my chest, and leave me a bullet-riddled corpse. No, I think I'll take my chances with a our metal friend here."

Scowling, Tenenbaum turned away from the old man and stormed back over to Carnegie and the others, leaving Adler with a serpent's smile decorating his face.

"Two World Wars, a flu pandemic, Stalin, and Khrushchev couldn't kill me, my dear," he called after her. "I look forward to watching you try."

**End Chapter. Ugh. Short, I know, and an ungodly long time since an update. My apologies. Truth be told, this past semester has been pretty rough. My immune system apparently decided to go on vacation, so I wasn't exactly in any kind of shape to be doing much besides sleep. Anyways, back in the land of the living now, so hopefully things can get back to their usual pace. As always, please review.**


	51. Head of the Serpent

**Disclaimer of the Disclaimer of the Disclaimer's Disclaimer: Disclaimer**

**Hey there folks. Back for another exciting installment. I'd like to take a moment though to thank everyone who expressed sympathies and support for me when I was dealing with the ongoing health issue shit-storm that has been the last couple months for me. There were also those who responded to my explanation of the lack of updates with the demand that I had continued to write during this period, and telling me to in essence "suck it up", and put a piece of fiction before real life. To them, I say only this: "Would you kindly go throw yourself off a cliff?" At the very least, throw your computer off one. The Internet will be a kinder place without you.**

**Alright. Preaching done. Now back to the violence! And fun! But mostly violence! Yay violence!**

With the soldiers bound and gagged, Carnegie ordered them shoved unceremoniously into the nearest supply closet. Guard's assault rife in hand, he took a moment to size up Delta. At last, he spoke.

"Let's go get your toys back, big guy. We're going to need them."

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The labs connected to the operating theater were empty of personnel and silent as the grave. Adler had wanted privacy whilst he sliced open the original Big Dadddy, the former prisoners deduced. And hoped.

"Where's the gear, kraut." Carnegie demanded, shoving Dr. Adler forward. The former Nazi glared at him coldly before striding intently over to an imposing steel door at the far side of the room. Billy kept a pistol pressed to the doctor's back the entire time. With a flourish, the old man let his fingers dance atop a number keypad before it gave up a satisfied beep. With the heavy metal thump of its deadbolts being removed, the steel portal swung open.

The vault's shelves were loaded down with every last bit of Rapturian technology the military had seized from the disparate groups. Amir gave a wry smile.

"Kid in a candy store," he murmured.

The group wasted no time. Many of the more advanced pieces were in various states of deconstruction, but they made do. Delta salvaged what he could. Most of his weapons were torn apart, no doubt being analyzed for how best the military could apply their technologies. Only his drill remained in one piece. The Big Daddy gave a grunt; he'd take what he could get. Two Big Sister suits hung on the far wall. Alice and Eleanor shared a silent glance before stepping towards them. The rest of the party armed themselves with whatever else they could find from it. Tweaked pistols and custom shotguns, weapons molded by a decade of death and decay, joined the incapacitated guards' rifles. Its contents pilfered, the survivors exited the vault, and Alice and Eleanor exited a few moments later, fully outfitted with their Big Sister gear.

"Well don't you all look intimidating," Adler spat sarcastically.

With an almost casual air to him, Carnegie strolled up next to the aging war criminal, smiled, and savagely rammed the butt of his rifle into the man's stomach. Adler went down coughing and sputtering, curled in agony at his tormentor's feet. The former soldier merely smiled.

"Damn, that felt good," he said to no one in particular before turning to address his people. "Alright, listen up. We split into two teams. First group goes to the motor pool to get us a ride to those docks they brought us in at. Second goes with Amir to prep their Thinker and the rest of this shit," he gestured to the remaining contents of the vault, "for demolition, then circles back to the motor pool. We're going to need a distraction to get out of here in one piece, and if one hell of an explosion doesn't do it, I' don't know what will."

Tenenbaum stared hard at him, her brows furrowed. "And what's to stop them from coming after us once we get away, hmm? We don't have the time or the money to create new identities for all of us!"

Carnegie gave a dark smile. "You just leave that part to me," he said coolly. "Becky and Eleanor, you two will cover Amir and Porter while they handle things here. Everyone else fall in with Billy, Delta, and Alice, make your way to our ride out of here. I'll meet you when I'm done." He cracked his knuckles before hauling the still ailing Adler to his feet. "Now as for you, kraut," Carnegie spat with a hard glint in his eye, "are you going to play nice, or do I need to feed you your own teeth?"

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A few minutes later, the teams had been divided, and only Amir, Porter, Becky, Eleanor, and an unwilling Adler remained. Eleanor was trying, and failing, to put the fact that Alice and Father were working together out of her head, but that simple fact grated at her. Adler meanwhile was devoting his time to the study of the Big Sister.

"Fascinating," he murmured to himself as they left the labs behind, all of the remaining explosives wired together and linked to the jury-rigged remote detonator Amir held. "This needle feeds directly into the bloodstream, a reverse of the induction ports on Sigma and Delta. But where does it-"

His wandering eyes and hands were snapped back into place by the ominous pump and click of Becky's shotgun and her accompanying glare. The doctor kept his thoughts to himself after that. Eleanor for her part bristled in silence. Amir threw up a hand for silence as the party reached a corner in the hallway, and the order was obeyed. Delicately, the young man peered around the bend before quickly drawing his head back.

"Two guards at the entrance to the Thinker lab," he breathed. We should try to take them out as quietly as-" His words were cut short by a slight pop as Eleanor disappeared in a cloud of purple mist, followed a few moments later by two heavy thuds. Peering back around the wall, Amir saw his childhood friend standing atop the two downed guards, an impatient look upon her face.

"Well," she said expectantly. "Are we just going to stand here talking all day, or are we going to do this?"

The young man couldn't argue with that logic, so onwards they went.

The Thinker 2.0 was a far cry from the elegant machine that Porter had known and pored over in another life, the machine that had become Reed Wahl's tomb. The shambles before him was a maze of humming servers and flickering monitors, all tied together by a spider's web of pipes and cables. Darting from computer to computer like a man possessed, Amir set about preparing the explosives. With a step slowed part by reverence and part by fear of what memories it could drudge up, Porter approached the machine's central console.

"They never could get it fully operational," Amir called out with a wrench in one hand and the other deep into the guts of some unfortunate computer. "The personality matrix wouldn't work. Its not as…alive…as the original. You've nothing to worry about."

The young man's words gave the former Big Daddy little comfort. They took him from the sensation of seeing a ghost to a corpse, a dead perversion of his life's work, bloated, foul, and twisted into an instrument of war. Steeling his resolve, the man removed the coding key he had brought with him from Rapture, the dark heart of this abomination he'd helped birth.

"Burn it," Porter whispered, and then once more, even louder. "Burn it to ashes. I won't have my work turned into a weapon. Not by this government or any other."

Amir emerged from the labyrinth of the Thinker and nodded as he extricated himself from it. "This rig is linked into the detonator now. Once I flip the switch, all our dirty laundry goes up in smoke. Rapture's secrets will stay buried."

"Good," Becky answered him, her hands tight on her weapon. "Now let's get the hell out of here so we don't go up in smoke with them."

On that, there was no disagreement, and the former prisoners rushed to rejoin their fellows.

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"What do you mean they're gone!"

Calhoun's eyes were wild as he listened to the report over his radio.

"Find them! Now! I want every available hand scouring this station for them, is that understood? Now, sergeant!"

With a flurry of half-screamed orders, the young commander stormed out of the base's command center and back to his office. He needed a drink. Just a little drink to clam his nerves, he told himself. Just something to take the edge off. He'd been needing a lot of "little drinks" lately.

Once alone in the sanctity of his office, the thick door doing its best to drown out the sounds of the chaos he had left behind him in the command center, Calhoun let loose a great sigh and fumbled in his drawer for the bottle of whisky and glass he kept there. Hands shaking, he poured.

The sound of the doorknob turning roused him from his ritual just as he raised the glass to his lips. Scowling, he prepared to curse out whatever idiot had the gall to disturb him.

"You'd better have a damn good reason to-"

The words died in his mouth as Michael Carnegie strode through the door and kicked it shut behind him, a sergeant's uniform on his back and an upraised pistol with a silencer in his hand.

"Hands on your head, slowly," the older man ordered in a low voice, the drone of the chaos beyond the door still audible. "Don't think I won't hesitate to shoot you."

"How?" the commander spat, grimacing but obeying.

Carnegie gave a wry half-smile. "Amazing what you can do with the right set of clothes and a little chaos. Men get scared when they hear there's an angry metal giant running around. Scared men make mistakes." He gestured towards the silencer. "You spec ops teams always did have the best gear."

"Did you just come here to gloat?"

"Now commander, I think we both know I'm a bit more practical than that." Carnegie's face hardened. "Where are the papers that Kombes has been working on for us? Where's our blank slate?"

"Right here in my desk," the young commander answered smoothly, his eyes falling to the half-opened drawer from which he had retrieved his drink, and the glinting metal of the revolver that was still in it.

"You think I was born yesterday, son?" Carnegie asked incredulously. "You keep your fingers off that desk, and away from the hand cannon I just know you've got stashed in there." The metallic click of Carnegie's pistol's hammer locking into position echoed through the room. "Now I'm going to ask you one more time, and if I don't get a straight answer, you'll start with a round in both kneecaps."

Cold sweat began to bead upon Calhoun's brow. "H-how do I know you won't just kill me anyways after I tell you?"

Carnegie gave a grim smile. "That's just it," he answered coolly. "You don't."

The younger man suppressed a slight shudder, and carefully wet his lips. "Kombes' office," he answered softly, at last. "The files are in Kombes office. Everything is there, passports, birth certificates. Everything. Copies haven't been sent to the CIA yet, either. You take them now, you can get away clean." He swallowed hard and met Carnegie's gaze. "Am I free to go now?"

The old man gave a laugh as harsh as a crow. "You tossed me and my people in a cell, our only crime being trying to get home. You treated us like a science experiment; pumping us for information and making us relieve every bitter memory of that hellhole. And to top it all of, you condemn a friend of mine to being to being your pet Nazi's lab rat."

Calhoun saw one thing in Carnegie's eyes as he met the older man's steely gaze, and with mounting dread he realized he had seen it too late.

The silencer muffled the shot to a mere click as the spent shell tumbled from the chamber and gently rolled across the floor. Calhoun lay slumped back in his chair, a trickle of blood oozing from the fresh hole in his forehead, shock and dread forever etched upon his face.

"Rapture is going with us to the grave, Calhoun. And no one is digging her back up again."

**Wow. Been a loooooong time since updates, and for that I apologize. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it and please keep up the reviews and comments.**


	52. Final Flight

The rest of Rapture's escapees thundered down the hallways of the base, Subject Delta at their head. Jack Ryan, Alice, and Billy followed behind him, surrounding the less skilled members of their group. No one was unarmed, though; even Grace cradled a pistol in one hand, helped along by Masha and Stanley as they clipped along at a pace beyond the abilities of her cane. Alarm bells were blaring, and Jack Ryan scowled.

"I suppose we've lost the element of surprise by this point," he shouted snidely over the clang of alarms.

"You think so?" Billy snapped back acidly, a scowl across his face. "Only a matter of time until we start running into guards!"

As if summoned by his curses, a soldier appeared around the next corner, his rifle leveled straight at them. With a flick of his wrist, Jack Ryan sent a bolt of electricity flying towards their newest obstacle. As the man writhed screaming in agony, Jack stopped to raise his rifle for a shot, but Delta beat him to it.

With a roar, the golem of Rapture raised his drill high, let its engine rev, and charged. The guard never stood a chance. Tossed like some bloody ragdoll, the man crashed against the wall with a new hole in his chest. Gore dripping from his drill, Delta charged on, never missing a step.

Jack let loose a low whistle. "Today is not a good day to mess with the big man," he said to no one in particular.

"There's never a good day to mess with Daddy," Alice answered him darkly, before dashing after him.

Jack could only shrug. "Fair enough," he murmured before turning to the rest of their group. "We'd better keep going. Wouldn't want to lose track of our wrecking ball, now would we?"

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Michael Carnegie stood in the office of the base's second-in-command, after leaving the office of the first-in-command complete with a fresh corpse. He tore through folders and desk drawers like a man possessed, hoping and praying that somewhere in the forest of reports laid their ticket out: the new identities Kombes had drafted for them.

"Where the hell did you hide them," the man muttered to himself. That was when he heard the door creak. In a flash, he whirled to face the entry, pistol in hand. He found himself face-to-face and gun-to-gun with Kombes himself.

"Speak of the devil," Carnegie offered with a bitter half laugh.

"And he shall appear," the office's owner answered him, his own pistol leveled at his former prisoner's chest. Kombes entered the office fully, never taking his eyes off Carnegie, even as he kicked the door shut behind him.

"I don't suppose there's any use in asking you to surrender, is there?" the tired solider offered with a forlorn hope, his eyes softening just a fraction.

"Fraid' not," came Carnegie's answer, a rueful smile playing across his lips. "You know it doesn't have to end this way," Carnegie continued as the men slowly circled each other. "You could let us go."

The military man grimaced. "We both know I can't do that, Carnegie."

"And why the hell not?" The grizzled man's voice hung in the air against a backdrop of sirens. "You're a good man, Kombes; I can see it in your eyes. You know what it means to serve. You killed and bled for this country in the trenches, just like I did, not like the rest of the damn bureaucrats and politicians running things here." Carnegie met his gaze, "We're alike, you and I."

The office's owner bristled at this. "You rattle off a service record," he snapped back at his former prisoner, "and then expect me to turn my back on duty? To betray the flag I swore to protect?"

"Look around you, Kombes," the Rapturian answered, voice harsh as a crow's. "Its already been betrayed. Hidden bases outside of public knowledge, experimenting on innocents, war criminals running the show?" The veteran of Rapture shook his head and scoffed. "Starting to sound familiar?"

The two men ended their light-footed dance, and stood at opposite ends of the office, staring each other down. Kombes's mind was racing. He knew his duty, but there was truth in Carnegie's words.

"We put our trust in our superiors," the soldier answered at last, through clenched teeth. "We put our faith in the chain of command."

"That's what the guards at Auschwitz said. 'Just following orders.' We both know you're a better man than that, Kombes."

His resolve was wavering. Every pent up doubt, every order he'd ever questioned, all of it gnawed at the back of Kombe's head, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

"But," he began in response, the fire fading from his voice, replaced with desperation as he clutched at his rapidly unraveling argument. "If we don't push the envelope, then the Soviets will, and if-"

"And if they do," Carnegie snapped, cutting him off, "then we'll find another way to stop them. A different way, one that doesn't compromise what this country is! " The Rapturian calmed himself, his voice leveling. "What would the brothers we lost think of us now, eh? What would they think seeing this country start to slip towards the horrors they died fighting?"

Kombes silence was the only answer he needed. Silently, the man laid down his gun and kicked it to the side. Without a word, he walked to his desk, threw open its top drawer, and with a metallic click popped open the false bottom in it. He presented the thick folder within to Carnegie with a face like a mask of stone.

"They're all here," the soldier said solemnly. "Only copies left. CIA doesn't have their hands on them yet. Completely clean."

With a look of resignation, he laid the folder on his desk and turned his back on his one-time prisoner. "No good deed goes unpunished," the old man muttered to himself. At least make it quick," he added aloud. "You know, in another life," Kombes continued wistfully, almost as an afterthought, "I'd like to think we could have swapped war stories over a drink."

Carnegie was silent for a moment, before flicking the pistol's safety back on. "There's still hope for this life," he answered, leaving Kombes little time to understand it before the butt of the gun slammed into his temple, and everything faded to black.

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With a choked sputtering, the last guard of the base motor pool died in a puddle of his own blood, Delta's drill exiting his flesh with a wet pop.

"That did it," Billy hollered, loading a fresh magazine into his rifle. "Get one of these trucks gassed up, open those doors, and let's get ready to move!"

A half a dozen flatbed trucks sat in the base motor pool, heavy garage doors blocking the path to the outside world. Stanley Poole hurried to a control console, scrambled looking for the proper mechanism, and then rushed over to a manual winch and pull chain when his search proved fruitless. The whirr of metal on metal filled the air as his hands flew one over the other on the chain, hauling it down with a strength that defied his wiry frame.

Jack Ryan emerged from an excursion into the motor pool's attached office with a set of jingling keys in one hand, his bloodied wrench in the other. Whistling for Billy's attention, he tossed the youth the keys with a wide lobbing arc. The young man caught them, but simply stared back, sheepishly.

"You can't drive, can you," Jack said with a sigh.

"Weren't too many cars down in Rapture," Billy answered him back with a shrug. "Or trucks for that matter." He tossed the keys back to the older man, who promptly scowled before hurrying over to the truck cab. A few curses later and he truck rumbled to life.

The staccato of booted feet running on tile echoed down the hallway towards them, and in a panic Billy turned to level his rifle towards the sound's source. A moment later, Amir and his group entered the garage and Billy lowered his weapon with a smile. The two young men greeted each other with a clap on the back.

"Where are we with the getaway car?"

"See for yourself," Billy answered him, gesturing towards the grumbling vehicle with Jack at its wheel. "We're almost done gassing it up. After that, all we need is Carnegie and we can-"

His answer was interrupted as the grate covering part of the garage's overhead air ducts was suddenly and violently forced from its post, a booted foot sticking out where it once sat. Carnegie's spry figure wriggled out form the spot feet first and hung from the overhead vent momentarily before dropping catlike down to the top of one of the canvas covered trucks. He dismounted via a hop down to the vehicle's hood, and then one more down to the ground. He answered his compatriots' dumbfounded stares with a shrug.

"The feds got nothing on all of Rapture's nooks and crannies." With a grimace, he paused to rub his shoulder though. "Either way, I'm getting too old for this shit."

"If you ladies are done gossiping," Jack Ryan hollered out from the truck cab, irate, "Stanley's finally got the door open, and we need to get moving."

"Agreed," Amir chimed in before holding up his jury-rigged detonator. With a flourish, he flipped the switch. A second passed in silence, and then another and another, with each mounting moment seeing more glares leveled at the young man. At last though, a resounding boom echoed from out of the depths of the corridors, rocking the base to its core and leaving Amir with a smug smile painted across his face.

"Let the games begin."

**End Chapter. Short chapter again, I know. Things are wrapping up, for real this time, and truth be told I'm finding it hard to write it. End of an era, really. Anyways, hope you enjoy it, and know that this grand adventure will be wrapping up soon.**


	53. Nocturne

**Disclaimer: Still Don't own it. Shocker, I know. **

The cold night's silence was broken as the canvas covered troop transport tore down the dirt road that wound through the pines. Jack Ryan kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as the truck hurtled downhill with only moonlight and his high beams to guide him, feverishly glancing into his mirrors every few moments. At last, the phantom shapes he had dreaded materialized out of the haze behind them, their headlights slicing through the mist; more trucks, and they were catching up fast. Banging his fist against the back wall of the truck's cab, he hollered for the rest of it's occupants' attention.

"Look lively, people! We got company!"

After that, he clamped both hands tight on the steering wheel, fixed his eyes forward, and slammed his foot on the pedal with a silent prayer to whatever god cared to listen.

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When Jack's warning reached his ears, Subject Delta moved to haul his bulk towards the rumbling truck's rear only for a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him short.

"We've got this one, big man," Billy Parsons shouted over the dull roar of the engine and road. On shaky footing, he navigated himself through the tangle of bodies clinging to the truck's benches, rifle in hand. An armed Amir joined him not long after. Side by side and precariously balancing on the edge of the truck bed, the arms of friends and family held them steady as they opened fire.

The rat-a-tat of automatic weaponry rent the air as the youths directed their fire towards the oncoming trucks. Bursts of bullets whistled through the night into the darkness behind, streaking past their targets and into the woods. Muzzle flash and headlights lit up the road, and at last the young men's aim was true. The windshield of the closet truck was riddled with bullets as cracks like spider webs crept across its surface, and a splatter of crimson sprayed against them from the inside. Driver slumped against the steering wheel, it careened off into the woods with a thunderous crash, horn blaring the entire way.

The next two trucks seemed to learn from their fellow's mistake. The soldiers in the passenger side seat hung their arms out the window, pistol in hand, and returned fire until the two young men withdrew back into the truck. Bullets pinged off the metal frame and tore through the canvas covering. Cursing all the way, Billy leaned out to return fire only to scream as a slug buried itself into his shoulder. Murder flashed in Alice's eyes as she jumped to her feet. She danced nimbly through the tangle of limbs between her and the back of the truck, hair streaming behind her and smoke streaming from her fingertips. Hurling her arm in a wide arc, hellfire coalesced in her palm before hurtling towards the offending gunman's truck, tongues of flame licking the air behind it. The fireball crashed into the grille of the troop transport and straight through to the engine, and seconds later gouts of oily flame leapt from every crevice on the truck's hood. Amir wasted no time in launching a salvo of gunfire at the other truck, and when a stray bullet caught a tire the rubber shredded and sheared off in a mighty pop, sending the whole vehicle fishtailing into its enflamed fellow with the crash of metal on metal.

Satisfied their pursuers were dealt with, Alice returned to her seat with a scowl, hair whipping in the wind as Amir crawled over to tend to his brother's wound.

"Hell of a girlfriend you got yourself there, Billy," he said to his patient coyly before working to stem the flow of blood. "Best get you patched up before she does the same to me."

No words escaped Billy Parson's pain-wracked face, but dropping his rifle he managed a one-fingered salute to his dearest friend before resuming his muttered curses.

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Free of pursuers, Jack Ryan spurred the rumbling truck to even greater speeds as he tore down the dirt road to the docks, slowing only as much as he needed on the path's curves through the pines. The impact from every bump, rock, and divot in the road shook their way up through the troop transport's suspension, tossing its passengers about wildly. The smell of vomit drifted into the truck cab, and the man found himself idly wondering who had gotten carsick.

Finally, he saw their destination in the distance; a line of docks, a dozen patrol boats bobbing at their side, loomed in the distance, spotlights illuminating the yard surrounding them. And then he saw the soldiers. Rifles raised, they opened fired as the truck hurtled towards them, and hanging onto the wheel for dear life Jack Ryan did his best to make them miss. One arm out the window, wind roaring in his ears, the man launched crackling arcs of lighting from his hand again and again until the troops began to scatter. Closing on the chain-link gate to the dock area, he swallowed hard and banged against the back wall of the cab.

"Brace yourselves, we're coming in hot!"

A heartbeat later, the warning proved prophetic. The truck smashed through the gate with a mighty crash as hinges snapped and the chain-link mass curled around the hood of the truck. Brakes screeching, Jack Ryan turned the truck hard, tires skidding along the concrete until at last the vehicle came to a stop, a jolt running through it as its bulk threatened to tip from the momentum, only to crash back down to level ground. Out of the corner of his eye Jack could only watch as a figure toppled out the back of the truck as it ground to a halt, limbs flailing in the view of the truck's mirror. Cursing, and thoroughly shaken form the crash, he worked the cab door furiously until it opened and stumbled out rifle in hand.

He was too late. As Stanley Poole pulled himself up from the ground to which he'd been cast, battered and a bloodied with one hand tight on his pistol, the nearest of the dock guards opened fire. A flurry of rounds caught the man in the gut before he toppled, and with a howl of fury Jack held his hand aloft as ice flew form his fingertips. The soldier was nothing more than an ice sculpture by the time Delta reached him. Swinging one gauntleted fist like a hammer, he smashed the soldier's frozen head to pieces, leaving the decapitated corpse to topple like a frost-covered tree. It was then that the Big Daddy turned his attentions to Poole.

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Gunfire ripped through the docks as Rapture's escapees returned fire at the soldiers, Alice and Eleanor lobbing fireballs into the fray before hurtling over stacks of oil drums and chain towards their hapless targets. Delta heard it all as buzzing in the distant back of his head, bullets pinging off his armor. He lowered himself to one knee before gently lifting up Poole's head from the ground.

"Hell of a mess," the pallid man managed to choke out through heavy breaths, his hands shaking as they tried to cover the bloody mess that his abdomen had become. He forced a smile and a ragged laugh. "You get your girl out of this mess, Johnny, you hear? The things I did to her…to both of you…she deserves a fresh start." His breath came in a heavy wheeze, audible even still over the chaos surrounding them. "You know," Stanley Poole said quietly, eyes towards the first open sky he'd seen in over a decade, "I never knew just how pretty the moon could be." With another ragged cough, he moved a blood-stained, shaking hands towards his pistol before training his eyes back on Delta. A steel resolve settled into his visage, and by sheer will alone he calmed the trembling in his face even as his eyes betrayed unspeakable agony. "I lived the last ten years as a rat. Let me die like a man. Let me die on my own terms." Delta turned his gaze towards Poole's gun, and the reporter simply nodded. "Go. Win your little girl a new life. Make up for the one I stole from her."

The Big Daddy gave a solemn nod before silently rising to his feet, Stanley's blood staining his boots and gloves. He felt a queer inner silence as he rose, a man who had caused he boundless misery dying at his feet. He ought not care, he thought, he ought feel joy at this rat of a man's passing. Yet in some strange way, down in the pit of his gut, he felt the faintest stirrings of sorrow. This man was another product of Rapture, another survivor of Ryan's lost dream and Lamb's broken utopia. A fellow soul who only wished to see the sun again. Stanley Poole, just as much as Michael Carnegie and his crew, Tenenbaum and her girls, Grace, Porter, Alice, and Eleanor, was a part of Rapture, and he, Subject Delta, was their Protector. He was their Protector, whether he wanted it or not, and he had failed. That was when he saw red.

The trio of dock guards taking cover behind a pile of steel girders barely had time to scream as their makeshift barricade came crashing down on top of them, Subject Delta's thunderous roar echoing out across the water as he rammed into it. The lone soul who managed to scramble away form the toppling pile of construction materials fared no better as the Big Daddy's drill thrummed to life before being planted in his chest. Bullets pinged off of the metal man's armor, mere annoyances to the golem of Rapture, as with a flick of his wrist Delta loosed a stinging swarm of his own, honeycombs growing and melting across his palm.

The buzzing insects found their way to patches of soft exposed flesh, sending their victims into a frenzy. With a hiss and a pop, a cloud of purple mist coalesced into a lithe armored form behind a pair of them, and in one deft motion Eleanor skewered them both upon her needle. Alice too leaped and danced across the dockyards, her hair whipping in the wind as fireballs flew from her fingertips, her eyes alight with fury. Jack Ryan and Carnegie stood together, advancing from one piece of cover to the next, each laying down cover for the other as plasmids and bullets rent the air. All too soon the skirmish was over, and ten American soldiers laid in pieces at their feet.

As the red haze cleared from his mind, Subject Delta spared a glance back for Stanley. The reporter had gone out swinging, spent shell casings arrayed around him like a halo, and one final shot through the side of his head. Who had let the bullet fly, a soldier or the man himself, was a mystery. Either way, it was a mercy; a belly wound was a long and slow death, and one full of agony.

"Stanley," Carnegie called, jogging over to where the Big Daddy stood. "Oh," he said quietly when he came near enough, fingers curling back around his weapon in agitation. "Shit."

Silence hung in the air for what before Carnegie spoke once again. "We've got to get moving, Delta. More soldier's are going to be here soon, and we can't fight them all." A scarred finger was jarred towards the docked patrol boats. "We get everyone loaded up into one of those, and we run." His resolve seemed to waver for a moment, anger and grief playing behind his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said with a sigh, "but we need to leave him. Barely going to be enough room for all of us as it is."

Delta nodded in silence. Wordlessly he knelt down before Stanley's battered corpse and with two massive metal-plated fingers gingerly closed the man's eyes. He did not know what to feel towards Stanley Poole. He did not know how much of a lifetime of deceit and cowardice that a man could redeem. But Stanley had earned what little dignity he could provide, that much he did know. The Big Daddy took Poole's gun with him as he rose and delivered it to Carnegie, who accepted it with a nod. His task done, the golem of Rapture walked ponderously back to the docks, leaving the agent of his damnation behind him.

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Jack had nearly everyone loaded into one of the patrol boats by the time Carnegie and Delta rejoined them. The anchor had been raised, the moorings loosed, and even as the pair approached, they could see Amir frantically emptying gas cans into the craft's tank. Billy sat with his arm in a makeshift sling his face nearly as pale as the moon while Grace tended to him. The only ones missing were Tenenbaum and Adler, the old soldier realized suddenly. Shadows played across the side of a boathouse, and the man took off running towards it as his mind put the pieces together.

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"So, this is the end then, my dear?" Adler's voice carried no malice, its usual menace gone. If anything, Tenenbaum thought she heard hope in it, a faint undercurrent to the resignation it held. Pistol in hand, she turned to face the man who had helped to make her, for better or worse. She had watched Dr. Adler do horrible, evil things in the name of science and in the name of the Third Reich, had suffered as his plaything for years in the grime and misery of the concentration camps. And then as soon as she was free, had turned around and done things just as unspeakable, to subjects, victims, even more innocent. Unbidden, the memories of the first days came back to her; Carnegie down at the docks, the sea slug. It had all seemed so innocent, so pure. The wonders of science and exploration. How naïve she had been. The blood of an entire city was on her hands. What was the life of one more man?

"You know Uncle Same pays quite well," the old doctor added quietly. "With your skills, you could live comfortably for the rest of your life. They'd forget this little episode if you surrendered and agreed to work." He gave a soft chuckle. "Die Amerikaner can be quite forgiving when it suits them."

Tenebaum stared hard at the old man for a long time, suppressing the shiver that went down her spine and the nausea she felt in her gut. The things this man had made her witness, the things that he had done to her…

"I am done making monsters, Adler," she answered him, steel in her voice. "I've ruined enough lives."

"Quite true, from what I hear Madame Frankenstein," the old man retorted, though his usual acid seemed to have dried up. "Both of our hands are blood-soaked, Brigid. There's no moral high-horse here."

"Who ever said revenge was high-minded?"

The old man gave a weary, wry smile. "No, I suppose it isn't. You know, you always were my greatest student, my dear. No one could hold a candle to you." His face turned a shade darker, more sinister. "And it seems that with your work the apple did not fall far from the tree."

Revulsion welled up in the woman as she cocked her pistol. "I bet you say that to all the girls you raped," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Only you, my dear. Only you," Adler answered with his wolfish grin. "Well then," he said with a sigh. "Goodbye, Brigid." He waved towards the stars with his cane. "Beautiful night to die, I suppose."

Tenenbaum steeled herself and swallowed hard. "Rot in hell, Doktor." A single shot rang out, and a moment later Adler's body splashed down into water. Carnegie ran up to her afterwards.

No words were spoken as the doctor holstered her pistol and stepped over to the space Adler had occupied mere moments ago. She stared at where his polished cane had fallen to, the crutch used by her tormenter. Her mentor. She picked it up in silence as she left that corner of the docks behind her, clutching tightly to the old piece of wood. In a distant corner of her brain, it occurred to her that she did not know why she took the cane. Perhaps as a reminder of the past, of where she came from. Perhaps a warning of the evils that science could create, a memento of a lesson learned at such great cost. Or perhaps she just liked the way it looked. Tenenbaum spared a glance back at the bubbles in the water beside the docks. With a heavy sigh, she left her past in its watery grave and stood tall as she walked onwards to the boat.

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"Let's move it, people. We don't have much time!"

Tenenbaum and Carnegie stepped aboard the patrol boat, not waiting for Jack to ask a second time. When they finally settled themselves, Delta took a hesitant step aboard. The moment his weight fell upon the deck, the whole craft seemed to groan and sink far further into the water. Grumbling, he stepped back onto the docks.

"I was afraid of this," Porter said softly. "Boat can't take all the weight. Armor's just too damn heavy."

"Then we'll take two boats," Eleanor snapped, a tinge of desperation to her voice. "Right?" When silence was her only answer, she tried again, even shriller this time, her voice beginning to crack. "Right?"

"Someone's got to stay and stall them," Amir offered quietly. "This boat is loaded down already. Those soldiers get to the other ones, they'll catch us in a heartbeat. "

"No," Alice began to mutter, rocking ever so slightly. "No no no…."

Carnegie rubbed his temples before locking gaze with the silent metal man. "I can't ask you to do this, Delta. You've sacrificed too much already. I'll stay."

The older man started to rise from his seat and hop back onto the docks, only for a heavy gloved hand to gently push him back. In silence, Delta shook his head 'no'.

With the hiss of escaping pressure, he undid the seals of his helmet before pulling the heavy brass and steel piece from his shoulders. He waited for the inevitable recoil as his pallid, necrotic face met the salt-kissed ocean breeze. He was a dead man walking; maybe it was time for everyone to see that. Resolutely, he shook his head, pounding one gloved hand against his chest, and praying that they understood him.

All of the anger, the rage, the self-loathing that he had felt over his short span of true consciousness had roiled within him, and his own impending mortality had only added fuel to the fire. All of the turmoil within his mind had finally been catalyzed by Stanley's death, and given way to a peace, a clarity, and a sudden realization: if he was to die, then he would die on his own terms. He would die protecting the ones that he loved, regardless of whether or not they returned the feeling, whether or not that love was true or just the product of a needle. He'd die as he lived, a guardian, a Protector; the last golem of Rapture standing watch over that doomed city's last children. He'd die as a Father for his Daughters, because deep down in the pit of his heart, he knew, as he'd always feared, that Sinclair, Poole, Ryan, and Fontaine had made him something greater than the scum that had been Johnny Topside. They'd taken him, twisted and tortured him, but at the end of the day given him something his life had always lacked; a purpose. He knew, deep down, that he was more as Subject Delta than Johnny Topside, and perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. He'd die as he lived; a guardian, a warrior. A Big Daddy.

"Father," Eleanor managed to croak out, tears trickling down her face as she climbed out of the boat to join him on the dock. "Please, no…" Alice joined her soon after, lower lip trembling.

Delta's heart ached as he laid his eyes upon his daughters. There was so much he wanted to tell them, to explain to them. So many tender moments that he simply could not share. He did the best he could; a gloved hand pointed towards his rotting face, a pound against his metal chest, and a tight embrace.

"I love you too, Daddy," Alice whispered through her tears. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Let me stay, help!" Her voice was imploring, desperate. Broken.

Slowly, Subject Delta nodded his head 'no'. And as he stood there holding them tight, he began to cry. Tears came unbidden to his ragged face, fat salty droplets rolling down his milk-white skin. He would not watch his children die with him.

"Father," Eleanor started, choking on her own words. "I'm so sorry. For this, for mother. For everything." Her eyes clouded with tears as she gazed on her Father's ragged face. "You've given me everything. And there's no way I can thank you enough for it."

There was a way, Delta wanted to say. Live your life, he wanted to say. Be free of the Rapture nightmare. Live, love, laugh. But all he could do was hold her ever closer, and pray that she knew what was left unsaid.

At last, he loosed his steel hold on the two, and stepping back he gazed longingly at them, willing the image to burn into his memory. He should've been thanking them, he thought, even after all the blame he had tried to lay at their feet. Eleanor had given him back his life, even for however brief it may have been, and Alice, she had given him a second chance. A chance to see the sun for one more time. A chance to make it here. And that made what he had to do all the more difficult. With a heavy heart, he disentangled himself from the girls and pointed towards the boat. Wracked with silent, shuddering waves of tears, Eleanor nodded.

Holding each other's hand tightly, the two girls returned to the boat, and Carnegie took their place. Man and machine held each other's gaze for a moment before Carnegie held out his weathered hand. "We never could've made it without you," he said, his stone face softening if only for a moment. "It's been an honor." Silently, the golem of Rapture took the man's hand in his own. Wordlessly the man returned to the boat and started the engine.

As Delta stepped away from the dock, other farewells fell upon deaf ears, his mind wholly and utterly consumed with one thought as he watched the boat slowly depart, growing smaller and fainter until the darkness had swallowed it whole. He thought back to his most distant memory, a bright-eyed little girl, his daughter, his Eleanor, leading him through the velvet and posh of a New Year's Eve party. Was it wrong that he yearned back for that simpler time, when that sweet little girl was his only care in the world, when his whole universe tilted upon that one axis, and all was writ in simple black and white? He did not know.

Alone at last upon the docks, the metal man listened to the gently lapping waves upon the docks and savored the sea breeze upon his skin for one last time before slipping his helmet back on. As the pressure sealed with a hiss, Rapture's first and last Big Daddy, its alpha and omega, turned to face the road to the base. Subject Delta sighed; it was a good night to die.

**There you have it folks. The penultimate chapter of this tale. I'd be lying if I said I thought it'd take me this long to get here, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. The finale is coming soon, I promise. As always, please comment and review.**


	54. Dawn

**Disclaimer: sniffle I still don't own it sniffle Now go on, get out of here and read the dang thing.**

**Well. Here we are everybody. The final chapter of this whole thing. Now I'll probably get all blubbery and emotional at the end, but for now, one last time, ladies and gentlemen I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I certainly enjoyed putting it to print. So, without further ado, the final chapter of Sea of Broken Dreams.**

The boat sped off into the darkness away from the mist-covered island, laden down with its passengers as much as with their hopes, dreams, and sorrows. A young woman, no more than sixteen, stared back at the receding shoreline, her hair whipped to a frenzy by the wind as tears streamed down her face, and the hum of the engine drowned out the sound of her quiet sobs.

"Father," she whispered, barely audible. "Why did you have to stay?" All the while the question that rang in her mind was _Why did you have to leave me?_ Was it selfish to want him by her side, a silent guardian, her knight in shining armor? After all the misery and suffering that he had gone through on her behalf…maybe it was. And maybe this sacrifice was what she needed to finally realize it.

As Eleanor Lamb stared back at the distant shore she dried her eyes and sniffled once more, before a gentle hand lowered to her shoulder. Looking up, she meet a pair of equally red and puffy eyes, one framed by a long white scar down one cheek.

"Its what he wanted," Alice said to her, just loud enough to be heard over the engine, as if saying it enough times aloud would make it easier to believe.

"That doesn't make it any easier," Eleanor whispered back, another tear snaking down her cheek.

"I know," Alice answered, pathetically, as she slumped into the seat next to her. Biting her lip, she hesitated as she stared back towards the island, now nothing more than a few distant lights. "I loved him too, you know," she said quietly at last. "I loved him just as-"

She was silenced as Eleanor took her in a tight embrace, sobs wracking her body. "I don't know what to do," the British girl cried, voice muffled into Alice's shoulder.

"Neither do I," Alice answered as her own tears returned, her voice distant. "Neither do I…"

The two girls sat there, locked in their embrace, tears flowing, feeling so utterly lost. No more words were spoken, not until the well of their sorrow had begun to dry, their tears replaced by a hollow ache in their hearts. They were orphans now more than ever; two Sisters who had lost their Father, their Daddy, and nothing would ever be the same. His was a presence forever burned into their souls, their very beings; an echo that would guide them even after he was gone. But an echo was just that; a distant specter of what once was, no true substitute for the flesh and blood and metal that had been their Father. So the two daughters of Rapture held each other as their boat sped away from one final link to their past, the man who had chosen to die so that their futures might live. They held each other and they wept.

"Thank you, Father," Eleanor whispered through her tears. "Thank you for everything."

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"You know, Doc," Michael Carnegie began after a long silence, his eyes fixed upon the horizon as his hands worked the controls, "there was a time that I blamed you for all this." Tenenbaum was silent as his words reached her, and undeterred he continued. "ADAM, Splicers, the war, this; I cursed you night and day for opening the door to all this, flipping the first domino in the chain all those years back."

"And now?" came her measured response, the doctor's worn fingers tracing the grain of the wood in Adler's cane.

Carnegie answered with a sigh. "Now I think I'm too tired to hate anymore, too old. Every one of us has Rapture's blood on our hands. We all let that dream die. Together." The man gave a bitter laugh, his wrinkles furrowing. "You know," he started, "I can't help but imagine what could have been. In another world, you know? The tiniest choice could've stopped all of this. If I'd never maimed by hand, if I never found the slug. If I never came to Rapture. " He sighed. "But no, the cards fell this way, and here we are."

The weary man gazed up towards the nighttime sky, the vast swath of stars and glimmering moon a backdrop for twisted clouds. For the blink of an eye he saw Rapture among the clouds; he saw it just as his last fleeting vision of the city as they fled, its sweeping towers nestled amongst the clouds, the stars its dying lights. Michael Carnegie could only shake his head once more; whenever man reached to far, or dove to deep, nothing followed but misery and suffering. He knew it all too well.

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Jack Ryan carefully flipped through the stack of files Carnegie had handed him before taking the helm, trying fruitlessly to read by the light of the moon alone. All had agreed it was most prudent to leave the lights out; it would be difficult to escape as it was without advertising their position. From what he could see, he was impressed. The work even better than the first set of false identities he'd gotten for himself and the girls when they'd escaped the first time. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his greying hair; the years had not been kind. There were some days that he wondered just how long he had left. Suchong had played Frankenstein with him, loading all kinds of horrors into his DNA and psyche at Fontaine's bidding. Heaven only knew how long it'd all hold together. Hell, he could be living on borrowed time as much as Delta had been.

Delta. The thought of the Big Daddy they had left back on that dock stirred a pang of guilt in his heart. Still, the man had made his choice, and if it had been him Jack knew he'd have chosen the same. He would not go quietly into death's embrace, he knew that. His reverie was broken however when Masha, asleep on the bench next to him, stirred ever so slightly and came to rest her head against his arm. As delicately as possible, Jack set the files down and leaned back into his seat, carefully cradling his daughter's head and running brushing her hair from her face. Then again, he thought to himself, his blaze of glory could wait. He had more important things to worry about.

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With a rumbling grunt, Subject Delta heaved the fuel drum into the last of the docked patrol boats, a thick trail of oil leading back to the dock house that was to be his shield. Safely behind its walls, he gave a snap of his fingers and sparks blossomed into his palm. A moment later the fuel trail had been lit, flames racing down its sleek sheen until at last they reached the boats, loaded high with every bit of flammable and explosive material the Big Daddy could find like a row of funeral pyres.

One by one he watched as they ignited, gouts of oily flame roaring into the sky and pouring out black smoke as the explosions tore the boats asunder. The flames danced in the air, leaping to the wooden areas of the dock and its surrounding facilities, swirling cinders carried towards the island's pines by the biting sea breeze that whipped new blazes into a frenzy. Fire lit the night sky a harsh orange, thick columns of acrid smoke billowing out, pulled this way and that by the rush of the air. It was a crucible, Delta thought idly, stepping out into the hellscape he had created, a forge. He would enter it a prisoner, a captive in so may ways, but through its fury he would find his freedom. Here the demons birthed beneath the sea could finally be cast out.

Armed with nothing but his drill, the Big Daddy eyed his surroundings for more tools of destruction. A nearby construction site for a dock extension found itself donating the lengths of pipe it had had so neatly stacked, a handful of the longest clipped into the empty weapon holster on his back. Handfuls of hellfire and sheer brute force forged sharpened points out of their blunt ends. A spare anchor and its chain came next, the great length of iron coiled around one gauntlet, the mighty anchor itself resting comfortably in the grip of one hand. As the heat from the inferno he had wrought seeped into his metal skin, the golem of Rapture peered through the smoke towards the gate they had smashed through, silently daring his foes to step through.

He didn't need to wait long. The roar of the flames drowned out all but the barest din of the trucks' impending arrival. When the first careened around the last bend in the road, Delta was ready. Like the image of some wrathful Zeus, he took the first of his makeshift spears and let lightning course through it without reserve, launching the javelin like a thunderbolt towards the oncoming vehicle. His aim was true; the metal buried itself into the truck's engine and wicked tongues of flame were soon flitting through its grille as the driver tried desperately to keep it on the road. The soldiers who tried to bail out of the flaming vehicle met a similar fate, speared by a telekinetically guided pipe. Javelins depleted, he let loose a length of the chain, feeling the weight of the anchor as he swung it experimentally once then twice.

His tests were interrupted by the hail of heavy bullets that tore chunks out of the dock house he stood by. Scrambling for cover, he caught sight of the source through the smoke; an army jeep, .50 caliber machine gun mounted on its back, tearing past the smoldering wrecks of the trucks that came before it and smashing through the gates. The smoke became his saving grace; as the gunner's shots whizzed harmlessly into the black cloud, the Big Daddy heaved his bulk from one piece of cover to the next. Great writhing shadows played out across the smoky battlefield, and as bullets pinged against his shelter the Big Daddy seized suddenly upon an idea. Loosening some of the chain along his forearm, he gripped the anchor tight in one hand and flicked the wrist of his other out across the docks. A split second later a ghostly armored image, drill in hand, charged out towards the dock, a phantom sprinting through the smoke. A close inspection would have shown it to be no more than a mirage, but with the panic and the smoke, the decoy proved abundantly effective.

Still roaring and spitting death the gunner whirled his mounted turret to chase a ghost, and that was when Delta struck. With a blood-curdling bellow he sprung from his hiding place, twirling the anchor on its chain above his head once, then twice, before whipping it out in a wide arc on the third pass. There came a wet crunch and the scream of twisted metal as the anchor slammed into the distracted gunner like some great meat hook, pinning him to his warped weapon. With another furious roar, the Big Daddy brought all his strength to bear and pulled the chain taut, until gun and man came apart from jeep with a sickening pop. Another jerk of his arm brought the bloodied anchor back soaring through the air, and he caught the gore soaked metal with ease.

Chain wrapped in one hand and the bloody anchor in another Delta darted through the smoke, whipping that heavy blunt instrument of destruction towards any shadowy soldier that stumbled through the smoke. He dispatched near a dozen before the chaos imposed by the truck crash began to fade, and the soldiers began to regroup. The sounds of more trucks rumbling down the hill screamed out over even the roar of the fire and the harsh clatter of automatic weaponry. Hissing in pain as bullets careened off his armor, the Big Daddy charged back into the safety of the smoke clouds Even now, he could see that they were thinning as the flaming boats began to sink into the water. He grunted in irritation; thus far the smoke had been his greatest ally.

The Big Daddy emerged from the noxious cloud near the wreck of the first truck, and as he began to twirl the anchor alongside him once more he could see the next group of trucks and jeeps hurtling down the road. That would not do. With a flick of his wrist the golem of Rapture planted one swirling vortex after another onto the road before him before seeding each with a miniature blizzard. Gunfire from the surviving troops once more rained down onto his back, and with a howl of fury and pain the Big Daddy hurried to the cover of the first downed truck It gave him the perfect spot to witness the results of his handiwork.

If the new truck's driver had realized anything was wrong about the road ahead, he realized it too late. The truck's front tires struck the outer bounds of the wind traps, and Delta could only watch with grim satisfaction as the truck's front end was lifted a few feet into the air. When the tires slammed back down to the earth, they were coated in a thick crust of ice that shattered like glass and took the better part of the front axle with it. Utterly crippled but still driven inexorably forward by its own momentum, the truck began to topple towards its side as the right tire gave way far more than the left. A moment later the truck was fully on its side, its rear end fish-tailing until it ran perpendicular to the road, the whole vehicle rolling and bouncing down the remainder of the dirt track like some screeching metal log.

The Big Daddy dove out of the way as the hurtling truck slammed into the wreck of its fellow, finally coming to a rest. The jeep that had come hot on the truck's tail caught the rest of the wind traps. With a great whoosh of rushing air, the whole car was flung violently from the road, ice racing to entomb it as the jeep flipped through the smoky night air to land with a crash just beyond the smoldering wrecks of the trucks. Shards of ice like swords shot forth from the twisted metal carcass, and Delta didn't bother checking it for survivors. Instead, drill in one hand and hellfire in another, he turned to the second truck, and the bleeding soldiers staggering drunkenly out of its back. He bloodied them even further, and then burnt them for good measure.

The great screech that erupted from behind his freshly made wall of gutted trucks and bodies could only be the brakes of the rest of the vehicles, and Delta knew that the time for traps and stealth was over. Now was the time for rage, for fury. The time for a death fit for any Big Daddy.

The soldiers screamed as a hulking beast stained in blood and cloaked in smoke, like a nightmare spawned from the vilest pits of hell, thundered out from behind the wreckage, drill thrumming with malevolent glee. Gobbets of flesh were hurled into the air as the Big Daddy tore through the squad like it was made of paper. If paper could scream. As he held the last soldier impaled upon his drill, he saw a mad smile stretch across the man's face as he died, and caught a flicker of motion from the man's hands. He felt the grenade fall onto his foot and heard it clink against his boot before he saw it. Desperately, Delta tried to kick the explosive away and a drop the grinning corpse of its owner atop of it, but he moved a fraction of a second too late.

The explosion seared his vision with blinding white light and left his ears ringing as he toppled backwards, shrapnel scouring the surface of his armor. His porthole was cracked, and a distant part of his dazed mind realized it was stained with blood. His own blood. Staggering, the Big Daddy dragged himself to his feet and stumbled towards the docks, bullets ripping through the air around him as the soldiers gained ever greater cohesion, their discipline, skill, and sheer numbers overcoming the chaos he had sought to create. Ears still ringing, Delta cast out a shaking arm, wiling another ghostly decoy into existence. A heartbeat later, the phantom faded back into nothingness as the IV's in his gauntlets rattled with dry suction; he was out of EVE. Hissing in pain and frustration, he triggered the release of the healing solution contained in his back tanks until it too abruptly sputtered and gurgled on air. He was out of First Aid too., the lines running to the tanks on his back shredded.

This was the end then, he supposed. Left with nothing but a bloodied anchor on its chain in one hand and his own faithful drill in the other, the Big Daddy rose to his feet and gazed out into the dying smoke, roaring in defiance. These men had come to take his life, and he knew full well that they would succeed. But they would pay a bloody price for it.

Pouncing from his slipshod cover with all of the strength and speed that remained to him, Delta turned his sights onto the nearest squadron of soldiers hunting him through the smoke, anchor whirling above his head like a dervish. Men screamed and rifles sang, and Delta let loose a rumbling bellow that in another life could have been a laugh. Bullets tore through soft gaps in his armor into the tender flesh beneath, but he grit his teeth and gave them no notice as he tore through the men with wide sweeping arcs of his makeshift weapon. The bullets and their agony mattered little; he was a dead man either way. When he had closed the distance that gave their guns the advantage, the Big Daddy turned to his drill. The weapon rent through flesh with ease until it too began to sputter and die, fuel weeping out from holes cut by shrapnel in its tubing.

With a howl of frustration Delta beat the rest of the squad into a pulp with the now useless weapon before tearing it from his arm with the snaps and screams of tortured metal. Shadows of ever more men came through the smoke, and he hurled it with all his might towards the form of the nearest, noting the scream that came with its impact with grim satisfaction. More bullets rained down upon him, their deadly kiss crippling him. Delta moved to raise the anchor once more, only for the muscles in his shoulder the falter. Hissing in pain he tried again, and once more he failed. Then one knee gave way, and then the other.

The golem of Raputre found himself felled, brought to his knees before the smoldering ruins of the dockyard, his strength flooding out from him in countless wounds as blood pooled upon the dirt, his rage leaving with it. The world around him seemed to slow as he lolled his head in one direction, then another. As his gaze fell upon the wreckage of the boats, he could not help but smile. He had done his job. He had secured the escape of Carnegie and his people, Porter and Grace, Jack and his daughters, Alice and Eleanor.

Alice and Eleanor. Their faces froze in his mind's eye, even as he watched single soldier stride forth out of the smoke, heavy barreled shotgun in hand. It had all been worth it for them; every battle, every struggle, every night of agony and self-loathing. He had bought them a second chance, a new start at life free from the taint and poison of Rapture, and if the price was his life then so be it.

His breath was coming heavy and wet now, each a heavy wet rasp. Hands slow and shaking, he reached up towards his helmet and undid the clasps. The metal hood fell away with the hiss of escaping pressure. If he was to die, he would look his killer in the eye. The soldier stopped a few yards out and raised the gun to his shoulder, hands working the pump action with an audible click, a grimace affixed on his face.

Alice and Eleanor. If they were safe, then he had done his job. If they had a chance to live, to laugh, and to love, then he had done his duty, and there was no more need for Subject Delta to exist. There was no more need for him to cling to life, to fight each new day for this agonizing existence. He would welcome death like an old friend if those two were free to their own joys and sorrows, triumphs and tragedies. Free to live.

The man who had been Johnny Topside breathed deep of the smoky air, and the taste of blood and misery he had wrought returned to him. Tears had begun to streak down his bloodied, necrotic face as he clung tight to the pictures in his mind, the images of his daughters. They skipped through the halls of Rapture, tiny and fragile, innocence made flesh. He ached for that simpler time, when all he needed worry of was their tiny hands tugging at his own, beaming smiles gazing up to him in adoration. Ignorance was bliss. This life was pain

Idly, a corner of his mind took note of his tears.

How strange, he thought with bitter humor. Monsters shouldn't weep.

A single shot rent the smoky air.

And then there was silence.

**Fin. **

**Honestly, it's all a bit of a shock to me that I'm actually finished. When I started this story just over three (!) years ago, I didn't know what I was going to do with it, and it was as much an experiment in trying to improve my own writing skills as it was an attempt to expand upon the universe of one of my favorite games. I never could have imagined the reaction I was going to get from the community here and across the Internet, and to everyone who has read it, offered me feedback, and recommended it through their favorites and through forums and pages on other sites, I cannot thank you enough.**

**I owe special thanks to the small group of readers who have diligently offered me feedback on almost every chapter, super reviewer WhoIsAtlas and my original (though now long absent) beta reader, Markel, among them. To everyone who has given me feedback in the form of reviews and messages, thank you as well. I feel that whole experience has truly helped me grow as a writer and as a story-teller, and as I look back at my first few chapters of this tale its amazing to me how far I've come with it. **

**In anticipation of the many disgruntled reviews/messages about the ending I suspect I'll be receiving, I just wanted to plead my case for a moment. Bioshock has never been a series about happy endings. It's a series about choice and agency, of characters grappling with, and often succumbing to, their own flaws. So to me, there really was only ever one way to end this thing, and though it may seem to some an exercise in futility to have brought a character back from the dead and cast him out on this great journey only to kill him again, I think It truly fits with the spirit of Bioshock to have it end this way. I hope you all feel the same. And to those who requested I continue this tale on into the Bioshock Infinite universe, I must respectfully decline. Delta's story is told, I think, the loose threads of Rapture tied. I'm happy with how this story has gone, and artificially extending it would only cheapen it, I feel. **

**So at the end of the day, I must thank everyone who has taken this journey with me, who has helped me grow as a writer, and who has put up with my dreadfully inconsistent writing schedule. Without you, Sea of Broken Dreams wouldn't be what it is today; complete. I hope you have all enjoyed the ride as much as I have.**

**This is jschneids, signing off. You stay classy, . **


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